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Class "P7/1 
Book • Mll^ 
dopyright'N 0 ^r-i> 


COPVK1GKT DKPOam 





























































































A GIRL of the 
PLAINS COUNTRY 


BY 

ALICE MacGOWAN 

Author of “Judith o} the Cumberland*” etc . 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
MCMXXIV 







?*7 

, V\ IU1 
( 









Copyright, 1924, by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company 


All rights reserved 



Printed in the United States of America 

SEP-2 '24 

© Cl A8 00642 





CHAPTER 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I 

The Arrival . 




i 

II 

An Affair of the Heart . 




H 

III 

The Firing Squad 




24 

IV 

The Doll . 




36 

V 

Poor Charley 




5i 

VI 

A Child’s World . 




63 

VII 

The Norther 




78 

VIII 

A Christmas Valentine 




86 

IX 

Stockings and Shoes . 




98 

X 

The Carriage 




108 

XI 

The Roping Match . 




119 

XII 

The Fugitive 




131 

XIII 

The-Boy-on-the-Train 




145 

XIV 

Some One Rides Away . 




154 

XV 

No Questions Asked . 




168 

XVI 

“Twen-ty-Sev-en-Hun-dred- 

n 

25 

1 

tle!” 


172 

XVII 

With the Trail-Herd 




183 

XVIII 

Sunday Comes Back . 




192 

XIX 

Hilda and the Flying M’s 




198 

XX 

Hilda and the Blue Roan 




218 

XXI 

Another Chance 




227 

XXII 

Young Wings 




238 

XXIII 

At the Alamositas 




252 

XXIV 

“Invitation to the Dance” 




264 


iii 







CONTENTS 


iv 


CHAPTER PAGE 


XXV 

The Dance at Grainger's . 

. . . 278 

XXVI 

As Maybelle Saw It . 

. 292 

XXVII 

Old Man Hipp’s Steer 

. . . 298 

XXVIII 

The Closing of a Door 

. 308 

XXIX 

The Resurrection Plant . 

. 3 H 

XXX 

The Return .... 

. 320 

XXXI 

A Telegram .... 

. 33 i 

XXXII 

An Arrival .... 

. 343 







A GIRL OF THE PLAINS 
COUNTRY 


CHAPTER I 


THE ARRIVAL 


HE little girl on the back seat of the stage 



clung to one of the uprights of the vehicle as 


though she feared that when it stopped she 
would, in her enthusiasm, hurl herself bodily from it, 
and into this strange, interesting, dusty life of the 
plains country. 

Hank Pearsall, manager of the Three Sorrows 
Ranch, who had driven the sixty miles in to Mesquite 
to meet the new owners coming all the way from New 
York, looked at her small face with its pointed chin, 
great black eyes under the thatch of dark curls, the 
repressed vitality with which she sat there giving 
more of an impression of urgency than most people 
could have given by running and jumping, and thought 
to himself that here was one who would all her life 
be a little happier, or a little more miserable, than 
the average. 

The child returned his gaze with an eager, wel¬ 
coming sort of look, and her eyes followed him as he 
stepped to the side of the stage. What she saw was 
a tall man of fifty, in the sort of clothes she was be¬ 
ginning to be familiar with—flannel shirt, trousers 
tucked into cowboy boots, and a sombrero, which he 


2 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


took off now, uncovering thick, crinkled hair of a won¬ 
derful black-and-silver sheen. His face was tanned 
and bearded; it had a look of calm about the brows 
and temples; but the very deep blue eyes looked as 
though there was always a twinkle in them. He 
smiled at the little girl, but spoke to the man in the 
front seat. 

City people, the Van Brunts. Hank knew that the 
wife and mother had died suddenly on the way out. 
To the elegant gentleman, handsome, with the marks 
of dissipation in his face, and the sleeping baby look¬ 
ing so strangely out of place in his arms, Hank said 
a little doubtfully: 

“Mr. Van Brunt? Pearsall’s my name. I’ve 
brought the ambulance for you folks. It’s right 
across there.” 

The young man climbed out and shifted to get a 
hand free to offer, answering in a low tone, and with 
great courtesy: 

“We’re very glad to get here, Mr. Pearsall. This 
is my aunt, Miss Valeria Van Brunt,” and Pearsall 
turned to help down a small, silver-haired, fine-fea¬ 
tured lady with a high, delicate nose and brilliant 
black eyes behind gold-rimmed nose-glasses. From 
the tiny jet bonnet to the high-heeled slippers and silk 
stockings, her fashionable clothing was dim with 
plains dust, and as she looked about at Mesquite— 
just a stage station, a bunch of shanties huddled to¬ 
gether on the bald plain—she cried accusingly: 

“Dear me, Charles! Is this the place? Why, it 
isn’t a town at all!” 

Her nephew answered something, in that low, cour¬ 
teous tone of his, Hank didn’t hear what. 

Among them, they seemed to have forgotten that 
there was another passenger to disembark at Mes- 


THE ARRIVAL 


3 


quite. Pearsall realized with sure, swift sympathy, 
that the child was used to being forgotten; he put up 
his arms and lifted down little Hilda Van Brunt. They 
were all on the ground then, their luggage dumped 
beside them, and the stage jingled away. 

“Is there any hotel?” Miss Valeria demanded. 
“We ought to have some rest—and dinner.” 

“It’ll be all right,” the ranch manager said quickly. 
“I’ve fixed for you. The ambulance is ready, and—” 

“Ambulance!” Miss Valeria interrupted. “Is any¬ 
body hurt or—or sick—or anything like that? We 
certainly can’t—” 

“An ambulance is the regular family vehicle on all 
the ranches around here, ma’am,” Pearsall explained. 
“You’ll find it mighty comfortable traveling. I aim 
to have you get in now and drive out a piece to a 
good camping place. We’ll have our supper there. 
There’s plenty good bedding. And we’ll get a soon 
start in the morning. No—well, nothing that you 
folks would call a hotel, here. You’ll find it better 
that way.” 

The baby on Van Brunt’s shoulder roused without 
a whimper, opened big, serious blue eyes and gazed 
about him. This gaze lit upon the little girl, fastened 
there, and slowly grew into a smile. His sister pressed 
in close to her father’s side and reached up to pat the 
baby, then thrust her hand into Van Brunt’s free one, 
urging: 

“Oh, yes, papa—please let’s go and have a picnic. 
It’ll be so beautiful!” And Van Brunt said: 

“Certainly, Pearsall. We’re in your hands now.” 

The ranch boss got his passengers into the ambu¬ 
lance, Miss Van Brunt and her nephew with the baby 
on the back seat, Hilda perched beside him on the 
front. As he gathered up his lines he smiled down 


4 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


at the tousled dark hair from which she had promptly 
pulled the much-trimmed small hat. 

“Now for our picnic, sister,” he said. “We’re 
a-goin’ to have a good long one. Sixty miles long. 
And camp overnight on the plain. I’ve got grub 
a-plenty, and everything fixed.” 

Hilda just gave him a smile and a little bubbling, 
inarticulate sound of delight in answer to this. Pres¬ 
ently, when they went over a bump in the trail, her 
short legs made it necessary that she grasp his arm 
to keep from being shot forward over the dashboard. 

“Why, here, this won’t never do!” said the old man 
as he stopped the ponies, tied the lines to the brake- 
handle, and fished out from among the supplies a box 
which he wedged securely beneath her feet. When 
they started on once more, he said in a confidential 
tone: “Ye see, I put you up here, because Auntie ain’t 
used to rough traveling; and your father, he’s got 
little brother to look out for. You and me can stand 
the jouncing, can’t we?” 

With a sure instinct he had sounded the right note. 

“Course we can!” the little girl echoed it with a 
sort of lyric jubilance. She took a long, pleased look 
at him, and began: 

“Auntie finds it very hard to bear this kind of life. 
The nurse we had, she came as far as Amarillo; but 
she said she never in all her days saw such a flat 
country—and she despised it—and she just couldn’t 
put up with it—and there wasn’t any money ever made 
that would pay her to. So she went back. She went 
back to New York.” 

“I expect this does look considerable different from 
New York,” Hank allowed mildly. 

“Oh, it does!” Hilda glowed. “Beautifuller. I 
love the way it looks. Aunt Val, she’s been a great 


THE ARRIVAL 


5 


many places. But this—she wasn’t ever here before. 
She’s been to Europe, and to Egypt where the pyra¬ 
mids are, and the Sphinx that’s all getting covered up 
with sand. I—” Hilda sent a half-shy, questing look 
into the old man’s twinkling eyes—“I know a good 
deal about Phoenicians, and Caesar, myself—Thor and 
his hammer, and Apollo, and the Holy Grail. My 
mother used to read to me about them.” 

“Yes,” assented the ranch manager easily. “I guess 
them’s mostly New Yorkers and such. I haven’t the 
acquaintance of any of ’em.” 

Hilda was silent for a few moments. This new 
friend was plainly somewhat given to humor. He 
might be jesting with her. Presently she spoke: 

“But when—when my mother died in Denver, and 
there wasn’t anybody to take care of Burchie and me, 
papa telegraphed to Aunt Val and she came. It was 
very good of her. She doesn’t like the country—nor 
children, very much.” After a pause, she added, in 
a diminished voice, “Do you?” 

“Do I what, honey?” asked Pearsall, starting a bit, 
for his mind had wandered from her prattle. 

“Like children very much—and the country; this,” 
and her looks indicated the big world about them. 

“Why, yes—yes, sure,” he protested. “I like this 
country, sister. And I certainly git a-plenty of it. 
But I’m a mighty lonesome person, sometimes—I’m 
a plumb lonesome old feller. You see there’s no child 
that belongs to me.” 

“Haven’t you got any little girl?” 

“No. No, not any little girl—” Quite a long 
pause, then,—“or boy either.” 

Hilda moved uneasily, and her eyes went to his face 
and back again, plainly under the stress of acute com¬ 
passion. 


6 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Well,” she hesitated, ‘Til be your little girl, 
too, if—if you want me. You see, papa’s got two 
of us.” 

The noises of the big vehicle had often made it 
necessary for the child to stretch up and put her rosy 
mouth close to her companion’s ear in speaking. Now 
these last words were forwarded very carefully, and 
with a swift, backward glance toward the rear seat. 
Miss Van Brunt was engaged with a smelling bottle; 
Van Brunt held his son on his knee and stared across 
the baby’s head toward a future which plainly daunted. 

“That’s a bargain, sister,” said the driver. “From 
now on you’re my little girl, too. And I’m your Uncle 
Hank. There’s a few youngsters in the neighborhood, 
and that’s what they call me.” 

That was a memorable drive, and it decided some 
important issues in the lives of those who made it. 
Sixty miles southward of Mesquite, in Lame Jones 
county, lay the ranch of the Three Sorrows which poor 
Katharine Van Brunt had bought with the remnant of 
her big fortune that Charley’s dissipation had left— 
the haven to which she had thought to bring her weak 
husband and her two children. Now she slept in her 
grave in beautiful, far-away Denyer, and the husband 
and children were going alone toward the home she 
would have made possible for them, but which, with¬ 
out her, looked doubtful indeed. An hour—another 
hour—the team of cow ponies loped steadily across 
that high upland floor of brown plain. 

“Like the sea,” whispered Hilda, enraptured. “Just 
like the sea, only the water’s all grass—and you can 
drive over it. It jounces; but you and I—we can 
stand the jouncing.” 

The fierce glare of mid-afternoon softened, grew 
milder and milder as the day waned. Hilda felt that 


THE ARRIVAL 


7 


she had never really seen the sun set before. It went 
down in a great glory of painted sky that rushed out 
over the floor of the plain so that everything—the 
ponies, the ambulance and its little cloud of dust— 
swam in it. 

“It’s getting very late, Mr.—er—Pearsall—isn’t 
it?” Miss Valeria asked unhappily from the back 
seat. “Isn’t there danger of our being lost if we try 
to travel in the dark?” 

“No, ma’am—not with me—you wouldn’t git lost, 
day or night,” Uncle Hank, as the little girl already 
called him in her own mind, turned a smiling face 
over his shoulder to answer. “But we’re most there 
now. See them willers where the moon’s a-risin’? 
That’s our camp.” 

“Willers where the moon’s a-risin’.” It jingled in 
the little head like poetry; it still sang there as they 
swung in beside a small creek that was just a succes¬ 
sion of water holes with dry rocks between, and she 
was lifted out. For, oh, the moon was rising, and so 
beautiful! It came up, a great shield of white in the 
pink that had somehow crept around from the sunset 
in the west; it looked over the willows and turned 
them black on one side and silver on the other; it 
shone on the little girl very knowingly, as if to say, 
“I’m not the same moon at all that I was back in 
New York—you and I know that.” And every bit 
of beauty, whether it was in the sky or on the earth, 
everything that was dear and lovely in this new life— 
and so much was—she attributed to the new friend 
whom she was going to call Uncle Hank forever and 
ever. 

The others had climbed out very gladly; Miss 
Valeria was established on the cushions from the seats 
with the baby beside her. Hilda was allowed to help 


8 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


—or to think she helped—Uncle Hank, when he came 
back from unharnessing, watering and picketing the 
horses, and set about getting the evening meal. She 
ranged as far as the creek bank for little sticks, and 
fed them into the side of the fire where the coffee-pot 
was. Hank had brought a box from the back of the 
ambulance which seemed to hold a whole pantry, and 
was broiling steaks on the other side of the fire. 
Bread was cut, canned milk and jam and other things 
opened, butter brought out, with knives, forks and 
plates—tin plates, and funny knives and forks and 
spoons such as you generally saw in the kitchen; one 
or two little stew-pots simmered on their own beds 
of coals; Hilda looked from them all to the shadowy 
earth, the moon-filled sky, quite overwhelmed with the 
magic she saw in both. Above them was such a great 
space of silver light as she had never seen before; 
down here, right in the center of it, burned their single 
point of fire; she watched its flame go.up and up, saw 
pieces of it break off to fly away to the big white 
stars and the moon. She almost forgot to eat her 
supper when it w&s put out for her on its plate. 
(Supper was a new word to Hilda. It was dinner, 
at home, in the house. It must be supper when you 
cooked it and ate it like this out-of-doors.) 

Aunt Val ate hers, and seemed to like it pretty 
well; but afterward she looked uneasy, and said 
anxiously: 

“I’m afraid this night air will bring on my neu¬ 
ralgia.” 

Hilda looked at her in wonder. This lovely, wan¬ 
dering air that was turning over the willow leaves as 
though it wanted to look at the dark under-sides of 
them, that came touching her cheeks, softly fingering 
her hair; it seemed to Hilda that if it really “brought 


THE ARRIVAL 


9 


on” anything that thing must be mysterious and de¬ 
lightful. 

But Uncle Hank got up quickly, saying: 

“I’ll fix your bed for you right now, ma’am; you’ll 
be as snug there as if you was in your own room,” 
and went over to the ambulance. When Hilda fol¬ 
lowed him a little later, there was a bed all made up 
in it, with sheets and pillow-cases and everything, just 
like a bed at home. Aunt Val made haste to get into 
it, and Hilda drifted back to the fire. She wished 
she had got Aunt Val to show her how to fix Burchie’s 
food. Papa was tending to it now. When Burch had 
had it, he went right off to sleep, and was carried over 
and put in beside Aunt Val. 

The new proprietor of the Three Sorrows, when 
he had laid the baby in the ambulance, walked on past 
the vehicle and was lost in the shadows down by the 
creek. Pearsall began to clear up and wash the 
dishes. Hilda asked if she might help, and was given 
a towel for drying. Uncle Hank began to make 
cheerful conversation. 

“This was a mighty long trip for a little girl like 
you—all the way from New York to Texas. Didn’t 
you get tired?” 

“Oh, no,” said Hilda, earnestly drawing her towel 
between the tines of the iron fork she was wiping. 
“You see, there was a boy on the train that had blue 
eyes, like Burchie’s and mothers, and—and—” blush¬ 
ing furiously—“like yours, some. He was a big boy. 
At least he was a good deal bigger than me. His 
father and mother were there, too; they came all the 
way from New York to Denver in the train with us. 
And, oh, he was most interesting! When my mother 
got sick, the boy’s mother wouldn’t go on and leave 
us. They all stayed. And he—The-Boy-On-The- 


10 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Train—he took care of Burchie and me when—when 
the funeral was. Aunt Val hadn’t got there, then.” 

“That’s all, honey; we’re done, now,” said Pearsall. 
He saw that the child’s lips trembled as she stood fum- 
blingly but determinedly rubbing dry the last cup. So 
he added, cheerfully, “We’ll set by the fire a spell be¬ 
fore you go tuck yourself into bed.” 

There was neither sound nor movement within the 
ambulance. Van Brunt did not return from his stroll 
downstream. These two, man and child, sat beside the 
camp-fire. Hilda’s big black eyes looked long into the 
great swallowing darkness of the plain, then she turned 
to her companion, who was filling his pipe. 

“I don’t think I’d be afraid here,” she said, a little 
doubtfully. 

“Sure not!” heartily. He skipped a coal lightly up 
in his bare fingers, made it light his pipe, and flipped 
it off again. “What would you be afraid of, sister?” 

“Well,” slowly, and watching his face, “I don’t 
think there would be whiffenpoofs here.” He didn’t 
smile—she had been afraid he might. So she added 
the explanation, “You see, they mostly stay in dark 
halls and on stairways, whiffenpoofs do, and they grab 
you from behind.” 

“No,” Uncle Hank shook his head decisively, “no 
whiffenpoofs here—if there is anywhere—which I 
doubt.” 

“Oh, yes, they’re in houses.” Hilda was pretty 
firm about it. “And—” She hesitated, looked away 
from him, then shot him one of her shy glances be¬ 
fore she went on haltingly—“And another reason I 
thought I wouldn’t be afraid here is that there aren’t 
any doors.” 

He took the pipe out of his mouth, looked at it, 
then at her, and asked blankly: 


THE ARRIVAL 


11 


“No doors?” 

“Yes. And so there can’t be a door-imp. When 
it’s getting a little dark,” she spoke low now, and 
very fast, as though she were afraid if she didn’t 
hurry she wouldn’t have the courage to tell it all, 
“when it’s getting a little dark in the house, and they 
send you into another room to get something, the 
Skulking Door-imp watches for you. He comes out 
and looks around the door; then his head is the thing 
that you think is a knob. You see, he’s invisible to 
every one but me.” 

“Truck like that,” said Uncle Hank, putting the 
pipe back into his mouth and drawing his arm around 
Hilda, “is enough to scare a little girl.” 

“It does scare me, Uncle Hank,” she confirmed 
gravely. “And those aren’t all. There’s ghosts. 
And there’s the Barrel-tops—queer kind of creatures 
that just roll after you. I most scream right out 
sometimes when the Barrel-tops come down the dark 
hall chasing me.” 

“Well, I’ll bet you four cents,” and he shook her 
gently with his arm, “that they don’t never come down 
no hall out here in Texas. I’ll be willin’ to just bet. 
Them things can’t live in this high-and-dry Texas 
plains climate. Where on earth did you ever get such 
notions, anyhow? Did some one tell it to you, or did 
it come out of a fool book?” 

“No,” said Hilda evasively, “nobody told me, nor 
read it to me. I—er—I just knew it myself.” 

“Well, then, you must ’ve made it up, child. I 
wouldn’t do it if I ’s you. I wouldn’t have no such 
critters.” 

“I try not to, Uncle Hank. I don’t want to have 
them. They—oh! what’s that?” as a long, jingling, 
chiming whimper came from somewhere in the sur- 


12 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


rounding dusk. She flung both arms around the old 
man’s neck and burrowed her head on his breast. He 
held her tight, and laughed gently. 

“Nothing but a little old coyote, honey,” he told 
her. “They don’t ever hurt anybody. He smells our 
bacon rinds. You must go to bed now, child. If any 
whiffenpoofs or suchlike cattle trouble you in the 
night, you come out to Uncle Hank—hear? Uncle 
Hank’s death on all them kind o’ varmints.” 

He saw her to the ambulance, then turned and re¬ 
plenished the fire and, filling his pipe, sat down to 
await Van Brunt’s return. An hour later the two men 
were asleep, wrapped in their blankets. There was 
no sound save the wind in the cottonwoods and the 
occasional, far, coyote cry, the nearer chirp or stir of 
a bird. During the earlier part of the night Van 
Brunt groaned, turned and turned again; roused, 
sighed, rose to feed the dying fire, sat a while beside 
it, and went back to his blankets. Then he slept 
heavily, and for a long time the camp was silent under 
the moon and stars. In the dark hour just before 
dawn the old man wakened suddenly and opened his 
eyes to see Hilda crouching beside him, her hand on 
his shoulder. 

“Uncle Hank!” she gasped, “I had such a dreadful 
dream, and when I waked, why, you see that ambulance 
is like a room; it’s got things like doors in it; and I 
was afraid the door-imp—” 

“All right, sister.” 

He lifted his head and looked about. She had left 
her aunt unawakened in the ambulance; she had 
skirted the form of her sleeping father—and come to 
him—to him, the friend of a day! 

“Here!” whispered the man who had said he was 
all alone in the world. Swiftly he unwound his 


THE ARRIVAL 


13 


blankets, wrapped the small nightgowned figure in 
them, and settled her cosily, reaching down to get his 
boots and draw them on. 

“But you aren’t going away, Uncle Hank?” qua¬ 
vered the child. 

“Not fur,” returned he humorously, as he went over 
and put more wood on the fire, then seated himself 
beside the giant cocoon from* whose top protruded the 
small face with the big black eyes. These eyes, under 
the influence of a good grip on a man’s blue flannel 
sleeve, gradually lost their wildness. They filmed 
gently; the long lashes descended halfway, were 
swept up again with a startled gasp; and after two or 
three checkings and haltings, Hilda slept. The ranch 
boss replaced the blankets when from time to time her 
small, impatient arm flung them off. 

Lost in the immensity of night, the camp-fire died 
down, was replenished, died down again, and showed 
only winking embers as the east began to blush with 
a new day* 


CHAPTER II 

AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART 

S OUTHWESTWARD again, all that day—beau¬ 
tifully long for the little girl, wearily lengthened 
for Miss Valeria who alternately complained of 
the speed and urged the driver to hurry a little. 
Pearsall always gave her the same good-humored an¬ 
swer, as though it had been a child fretting at him: 
“Ponies got forty-odd miles to go, ma’am; have to 
just hold this same good road pace.” 

At noon they stopped and got out for a rest; a 
“dry camp” he called it, with only water from the 
canteens to make their coffee. Through the after¬ 
noon, the thud-thud of hoofs, the creak and swish of 
wheels on dry turf, like a monotonous old tune, almost 
sent Hilda to sleep where she sat beside Uncle Hank 
on the high seat. Then, when the sky flamed once 
more red with sunset, suddenly there was living green 
in front of them, the ambulance swung through an 
open gate, up a long avenue of young box-elders and 
black locusts, at the end of which they could see a 
low stone house, broad, sheltering, hospitable, with 
its dooryard of Bermuda grass, at the edge of which 
Pearsall pulled up, got out and helped the others 
down. Van Brunt, who had sat silent and uncom¬ 
plaining for hours of heat and weariness, exclaimed: 

“This the ranch? Why, Pearsall, I didn’t suppose 
there was such a green place in all the Panhandle.” 

“Well, there’s not another like the Three Sorrows, 
I can tell you,” answered the old man, busy with bags 
14 


AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART 


15 


and valises; and as they moved toward the house Miss 
Valeria murmured that it was better than could have 
been expected. 

Hilda, hanging back, saying nothing, gazed about 
at the new home with eyes that loved every stone in 
its walls. Its pleasant rustle of leaves and lisp of 
water, after all those miles of splendid, arid plain, 
made her eyes smart with happy tears. The beautiful 
wing-like, curving sweep in which the line of young 
cottonwoods, following the happy course of a tiny irri¬ 
gating ditch, flung away around one corner of the 
building—here was a world where anything—lovely 
—might happen. Those willows over yonder by the 
little lake (the old man called it a watering tank), 
they looked just like Nixies crouching down in their 
long green hair. There was mystery in the very ap¬ 
pearance of the plain about them. When a China¬ 
man came to the door she could have shouted with 
delight. 

He was a strange, limp effigy of a Chinaman, like 
a badly made rag doll, his slant eyes and pigtail giving 
the impression that he had lately been hung up on a 
line with other such toys. Apparently he was young, 
though the Oriental never looks to our eyes either 
exactly young or old, and certainly he was morose. 
The queue on his head, the dull blue blouse he wore, 
his funny black-and-white boat-shaped shoes, all 
charmed Hilda. 

The first thing she saw that looked like the old 
home back in New York was a familiar rug spread 
out at the foot of the stairs in the hall. 

“I s’pose your full-sized carpets ain’t come yet,” 
Pearsall explained, as he showed his employer the 
living-room on one side, the ranch office on the other. 
“These mats looked a good deal worn,” he indicated 


16 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


the dull bloom of Turkish rugs disposed here and 
there, “but of course they’ll be nice and soft for the 
children to play on.” 

Van Brunt assented kindly, and neither he nor Miss 
Valeria offered any explanation. It was near supper 
time. The open door at the end of the hall showed 
a shouldering group of masculine forms, ranch riders, 
heretofore familiar to the eyes of the newcomers only 
in pictures. The foremost of these detached himself, 
came forward, and was presented as O’Meara—“One 
of your boys, Mr. Van Brunt.” Hilda liked the look 
of him, and was more pleased when he spoke. 

“We didn’t know where you’d want your things,” 
he said modestly. “We took everybody’s opinion— 
even the Chink’s—but at that we couldn’t make out 
what some of ’em was intended for. We just put the 
trunks around here and there to make it seem home¬ 
like.” 

Hilda wondered that her aunt’s response to this 
should be so faint. Shorty O’Meara’s ideas on fur¬ 
nishing and interior decoration had immediate success 
with her. The open door of the office room showed 
a big desk, some chairs, and a pile or two of books 
on the floor. The little girl left that without fur¬ 
ther inquiry, and went into the living-room where a 
spindle-legged, inlaid dressing table, with its sweep 
of mirror, neighbored a trunk and several dining¬ 
room chairs. There were more books here, on the 
floor, the chairs, the window-sills. These latter were 
very deep. They might well have been specially de¬ 
signed for sitting in of rainy afternoons to look at pic¬ 
ture books or play with dolls. The grown-ups walked 
about and looked somewhat unhappy. She had for¬ 
gotten them almost in her survey of her new home. 
She presently got Burch and lugged him about, talking 


AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART 


17 


to him, since he was the only individual present sen¬ 
sible enough to really appreciate the attractiveness of 
the place. The roughcast plastered walls looked so 
sheltering and strong. The open doorway into the 
dining-room showed a great long table. All of those 
men were going to eat there. She groped vaguely 
for a line in a ballad with which her mother used to 
sing her to sleep—something about the baron sitting 
in his hall and his retainers being blithe and gay. The 
table wasn’t in the hall, of course, but otherwise it 
was just the same. 

Then came Aunt Valeria’s voice calling to her from 
upstairs; she followed that weary lady, and she and 
Burch were washed and made seemly for the table. 

That first supper was a wonderful meal to her, too, 
with a lot of tall men trooping in to sit at the board. 
Their bronzed faces, their keen, forth-looking eyes, 
used to search great levels, the air of individuality, 
of independence, laid powerful hold on the child’s 
fancy. Every time a spur jingled beneath the table, 
or one of those big voices boomed out suddenly, her 
heart leaped in swift though uncomprehending re¬ 
sponse. 

Afterward, in the living-room, she heard with some 
anxiety, Pearsall doubtfully suggest to her father that 
they might want to build a separate mess house for 
the men. Her father said no, he didn’t mind the men 
at the table; and Hilda heaved a great sigh of relief. 
She had already struck up quite a friendship with 
blond, talkative Shorty O’Meara; she had even made 
some timid overtures to a lank, elderly cynic who lived 
up to the name of Old Snake Thompson. To have 
her social adventures in this direction curtailed would 
have been trying. 

The days that followed the arrival were strange, 


18 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


interesting ones. Her father was wrapped in an ob¬ 
scurity of dejection and grief; Miss Van Brunt was a 
victim of neuralgia which she declared the plains wind 
had developed. The child had only the baby brother, 
with the occasional companionship of Uncle Hank and 
some of the younger cowboys; yet she made eager 
acquaintance with this new life; and it was to the old 
man she came for information or to share with him 
her joys. 

“All the horses you ride are yellow ones, Uncle 
Hank, aren’t they?” she asked him one evening when 
he came in from the range. 

“Yes, honey, I’ve rode a buckskin pony for a good 
many years. I reckon the folks wouldn’t hardly know 
me on any other color of hoss. I sort of think they’re 
becoming to me—don’t you?” 

“Oh, yes, very,” Hilda assured him gravely. 
“What’s this one’s name?” 

“Why, you see, I just call ’em all ‘Buckskin.’ It’s 
easiest.” 

Sometimes he took her out for short rides, of an 
evening, holding her before him on the saddle of the 
tall buckskin horse with a blaze face, or the little dark 
buckskin pony that had a brown mane and tail. Trav¬ 
eling in this fashion one evening across pastures she 
pointed to a queer, humped object, sway-backed, with 
a ewe-neck, and a rough coat of brindled hair that 
stuck up like the nap on a half-worn rug. 

“What’s that, Uncle Hank? It looks something 
like a calf.” 

“ ’S a dogie, honey,” he explained, absently. 

“A dogie,” the child repeated. “Dogies are a kind 
of animal I don’t know. Is it wild, or tame?” 

Pearsall laughed. 

“You was right in the first place, sister,” he said. 


AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART 


19 


“That pore little skeesicks is a calf. It lost its mother 
when it was too young to eat grass rightly; so it sort 
of starves along, and gets stunted and runted. We 
call ’em dogies. You’ll see one every once in a while, 
round over the range. They’re no good to nobody— 
nor to theirselves.” 

“Oh,” said Hilda, under her breath. 

A day or so later, finding her a bit drooping, Pear¬ 
sall questioned: 

“What’s the matter, sister? Is something worry¬ 
ing you?” 

“Uncle Hank,” she explained, with some diffidence, 
“my heart is sad about dogies. I saw two of them 
to-day, and my heart is sad about them, ever since.” 

(She had wanted to say, in the language of one of 
her favorite ballads, “My heart is wae”; but judged 
that that might be a little too much for her com¬ 
panion, and tried him with a simpler literary form.) 

“Is it, honey?” inquired the old man, easily. “Oh, 
I guess I wouldn’t worry about ’em. Remember that 
we don’t ever butcher ’em, nor even brand ’em.” 

“That’s part of the sadness,” Hilda maintained, 
shaking her head. “It’s just like I used to want to 
cry when I saw the little dwarfed people in the shows, 
that aren’t children, and never will be grown up.” 

Into the long talks which the two held together of 
an evening, Hilda often introduced that hero who 
never had any other name than The-Boy-On-The- 
Train. 

“He knew most everything, Uncle Hank,” she once 
declared. 

“I reckon so, honey,” assented Pearsall; but he 
seemed to Hilda not sufficiently impressed. She 
sought in her recollection for definite marvels to at¬ 
tribute to this favorite, and came hard up against that 


20 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


trying fact we all meet, that you cannot communicate 
to another the fascination you have experienced. It 
is something to be felt, not put into words. Pressed 
thus, Hilda stated one day to Uncle Hank that her 
hero could understand the language of birds. He 
accepted it with much too great facility, reconciled 
thereto by the fact that a person in Hilda’s book of 
fairy tales, which she had shown him earlier in the 
evening, could do the same. But the statement kept 
its author awake the greater part of the night, and a 
penitent, small Hilda climbed up into his arms as 
soon as he sat down after supper next evening and 
explained: 

“Why, Uncle Hank, you know The-Boy-On-The- 
Train, he couldn’t quite—what I said—understand 
all that the birds were talking about.” 

“Couldn’t he, Pettie?” inquired Hank placidly. 

“No,” said Hilda with solemnity. “He might just 
as well have, but he couldn’t. He could just understand 
what people said; but—” The small face flushed 
deeply; word forms rushed fluidly about in the stress 
and flux of her emotion—“but he understanded that 
awful good.” 

If Hilda had come to a group of children, The- 
Boy-On-The-Train must have grown dim behind the 
stirring realities of actual companionship. But in the 
lonely life that began for her now, he filled in many 
an hour which might be otherwise forlorn. He did 
not lose vividness. She saw him at that ranch he had 
spoken of, riding the marvelous pony which would 
shake hands, perfecting himself in those manly sports 
upon which he had casually touched, and which her 
lively fancy was liberally providing for him. As time 
went on, he grew of course; yet he remained delight- 


AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART 21 

fully a boy, her champion and hero in the dream world 
;which was always so real to the imaginative child. 

Meanwhile Pearsall, who had been for some time 
manager for a non-resident owner, had only remained 
to go over tallies, count of stock, and deliver to the 
purchaser the ranch and its appurtenances. This 
work was done now, the details all complete, and 
upon an evening Hank had brought his tally sheets 
and the mass of statements and figures to young Van 
Brunt in the ranch office, where he sat explaining the 
situation patiently to the other man. 

It was past the children’s bedtime; Burch was 
asleep upstairs; but the little girl had twice been sent 
from the room with an admonition of increasing 
sharpness from her father. And still Pearsall could 
see from the tail of his eye that she hung just outside 
the door. 

“But, Pearsall,” Van Brunt, helpless city man, re¬ 
peated in a sort of blank dismay, “you don’t mean to 
say you’re leaving me—right now—when I need you 
worst? Why, what on earth will I do?” 

“You know,” said Hank mildly. “I explained it 
to you last week, Mr. Van Brunt. When the ranch 
was sold, back three months ago, I looked out for 
another job. I got one, with the Quita Que, over 
in New Mexico, and they put me on forfeit—” 

“No business man,” broke in Van Brunt. “I sup¬ 
pose I didn’t understand. The fault is mine, Pear¬ 
sall. But this—I—I’m about as competent to run a 
ranch as Burch would be. I somehow took it for 
granted that you were to be manager. Can’t we—I 
will gladly pay that forfeit, if you are willing to stay 
r—long enough at least to get me started.” 

Hank raised a warning hand as Hilda’s face again 


22 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


showed at the door. The child did not edge in, as she 
had edged before! She made straight for Pearsall— 
though she winced at her father’s impatient exclama¬ 
tion—climbed to the old man’s lap, and looked search- 
ingly into his face. 

“Uncle Hank—you—going away?” She choked on 
the last word, then added half desperately, “Not—to 
stay? You’ll come back—won’t you?” 

Van Brunt’s strained attitude relaxed a little; he 
sat back vaguely in his chair, glancing from one to the 
other, the dismay in his face gradually giving way to a 
half doubtful gleam of hope. Hank was silent a mo¬ 
ment, Hilda watching him, openly restraining tears. 
The manager had seen more than one Easterner 
launch himself and everything he possessed in this cat¬ 
tle ranching game, and, ill prepared, inexperienced, 
lose all. Before him was another candidate for just 
such another calamitous failure. But it was the warm 
little body trembling on his lap, the big dark eyes 
searching his, that he was most conscious of. 

“That’s all right, Pettie—about me going away,” 
he began hesitantly. Then with more certainty, and 
setting her gently down, “You run along to bed, honey.” 

She moved a little, with childhood’s tragic reluctance, 
in the direction of the door, then turned with just a 
mute look into his face. Hank gave her a reassuring 
smile. 

“Time them big black peepers was shut, Pettie,” he 
said easily. “And it’s all right. If I do have to 
go away, I’ll come straight back. Don’t you worry. 
I’m not goin’ to quit the Sorrers. Reckon I’ll stay 
as long as you do.” 

“Then—” began Hilda. But her throat swelled so 
that she couldn’t finish it. It was going to be, “Then, 
if you will never forsake me, I will never forsake you,” 


AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART 


23 


—a line from one of her best loved fairy stories—all 
of that, even here before papa. But the best she could 
do was, “Then—I’ll go—Uncle Hank.” And she 
crept out. 

When they heard her feet pattering on the stairs, 
Van Brunt began to speak, but Hank stopped him with 
a shake of the head. 

“No, Mr. Van Brunt; I’ll pay the forfeit. It’s me 
that’s ruing back on a contract with the Matador, not 
you. I’ll stay.” Then, after a pause, “I thought likely 
I’d have to—that is, if you wanted me—that first day 
driving down from Mesquite. I’m all set to stay. 
That’s settled. We’ll say no more about it.” 


CHAPTER III 


THE FIRING SQUAD 

D OMESTIC existence at the Three Sorrows was, 
in those days, a very unsettled affair. Came 
the day that sullen Chinaman left. Charles 
Van Brunt had ridden to Mesquite; all the boys 
were out on the range; the baby was asleep upstairs; 
Hilda and Aunt Val were alone with the problem. 
The little girl stood by, while to Miss Van Brunt’s 
protests—which finally came to be almost hysterical— 
the yellow man made brief response: “No can do. 
Velly lonesome.” And though the lady pleaded with 
him for quite a distance down the long avenue of box 
elder and black locust, he walked stolidly away in 
those boat-shaped shoes of his, his lips tightly shut, 
his blouse tightly buttoned across a resolute bosom, 
his queue tightly coiled around a skull which housed 
the working machinery of a mind with which poor Aunt 
Val had never been able to establish communication, 
nor Hilda to get upon friendly terms. 

Uncle Hank himself got supper that evening; but 
he remarked somewhat humorously that he couldn’t 
spare himself to cook, and persuaded Missouri into 
donning an apron and going to work in the kitchen. 

“Why don’t they get another Chink?” the cowboy 
grumbled. 

“Well, as I understand it, they have wrote some- 
wheres for one, but they haven’t heard yet,” said 
Pearsall. 

“No, nor they won’t,” was Missouri’s opinion. “A 
24 


THE FIRING SQUAD 25 

Chink’s plumb shy of one of these here lonesome 
ranches. I bet I’m in for a life sentence,” for a ranch 
rider hates to cook. 

Nothing that really could have been called a neigh¬ 
borhood existed in the cattle country of the Lame 
Jones County of that day, yet the Van Brunts had 
not been at the Three Sorrows a week before there 
was an invitation for Miss Valeria to bring Hilda and 
Burch to spend the day at the Capadine ranch, six miles 
east of them, and enjoy the company of Clark Capa¬ 
dine, Jr., and the ranch’s young guests, the two March- 
banks children. Shorty drove them over in the buck- 
board—a vehicle Hilda approved of far more than 
the shiny closed carriage at home in New York. 

To Hilda that visit was a first introduction into the 
life of her peers as she was to find it from that time 
on. Clarkie Capadine was a good-natured boy of ten, 
whom Hilda would have liked very much if she had 
been capable that day of any natural or comfortable 
sentiments. But the Marchbanks boy, an advanced 
person whose name was Lafayette, shortened and pro¬ 
nounced in the Southern fashion, “Fayte,” scorned her 
utterly. He scorned also his sister Maybelle, five years 
younger than himself, and therefore near Hilda’s own 
age. Yet his contempt of Maybelle was nothing worse 
than the male intolerance of the foolish female, while 
Hilda learned from him, coldly, insultingly, that she 
was a tenderfoot. She was not only a child, and a girl 
at that—she was a tenderfoot. Did she know what 
chaparajos were?—tapaderos?—latigos?—a cinch, 
even? She did not. Maybelle was not expected to 
deal much in these terms on account of her deficiencies 
as a girl; but Hilda didn’t even know what such things 
were for! She was a tenderfoot—that’s what she was! 

The day was clouded by the murk of Fayte’s sneers. 


26 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


He condescended to rope the girls as they ran scream¬ 
ing; but being rated as dumb driven cattle, even by 
so mighty a person, wasn’t much of a consolation. 
Finally he scalped his sister’s dolls by the simple proc¬ 
ess of pulling their wigs off. Maybelle went whim¬ 
pering to Mrs. Capadine, who indignantly told the boy 
that he would not be allowed to go on the return visit 
to the Three Sorrows which Miss Valeria was already 
proposing. Fayte said sullenly that he didn’t want to. 
He said that the Three Sorrows was his ranch, any¬ 
how—by rights—and far’s he was concerned he didn’t 
care to go and see other people living on it. 

His ranch! What could Fayte Marchbanks mean 
by that? The next day Hilda took the question to her 
father, but he only laughed. It was Uncle Hank— 
Uncle Hank, who always talked to one the same as to 
grown-ups—who finally explained the matter to her, 
allowing tolerantly, “Oh, just a kid’s bragging. Fayte 
Marchbanks says things like that, I expect, because 
his Spanish grandpa, old man Romero, was the first 
owner of this ranch, and did give the place its name— 
the Rancho of the Three Sorrows.” 

“What do you suppose made him call it such a sad 
name, Uncle Hank?” Hilda wanted to know. “Do 
you suppose he had them—three sorrows?” 

“He did so, Pettie—in his three daughters. Mich- 
aela, his oldest, she took smallpox from a family of 
Arkansas movers that came driftin’ through these pas¬ 
tures two weeks before she was to have been married. 
Her looks was ruined. She went into a convent up in 
Santy Fe. Lola, the next one, was killed in a train 
wreck. And Guadeloupe, the third, his baby, and the 
prettiest of the bunch, ran away with Lee Marchbanks, 
which is Fayte’s and Maybelle’s pa. He said neither 
of them should ever step foot on his land while he 


THE FIRING SQUAD 27 

lived. Old Romero’s wife was dead, and he never had 
no sons. He took the trouble about his daughters 
hard. He drank up all his property—” Hilda had a 
moment of wondering how he could do that—“and 
then drank himself to death.” 

“Maybelle says her mother is dead, too,” said 
Hilda. “They had the sorrow, didn’t they, Uncle 
Hank? Maybelle and Fayte, I mean.” 

“Urn—well—it’s all in the past, honey. And Lee 
Marchbanks—Colonel Marchbanks, they call him, now 
—is a rich man, I hear, over in New Mexico. Jest 
leaving the kids with Mrs. Capadine while he brings 
out his .second wife from the east somewheres. I ex¬ 
pect they’ll have a fine lady for a mother when they 
go back.” 

“Yes,” said Hilda, turning this information over 
slowly and curiously in her mind. “I didn’t know 
that.” She stole a look over her shoulder, through 
the open door, to where Miss Van Brunt, dressed ex¬ 
actly as she had been used to dress back in her New 
York home, sat reading a magazine. “Of course I 
have Aunt Valeria,” she remarked hesitantly. * 

Hank’s glance followed hers; he crinkled up his eyes 
in a look that was half smiling, half pitiful. Poor 
Miss Valeria always looked somehow like a person 
who had come to stay for only a day or two. The 
wind that whooped up over those great levels from the 
Gulf, and brought life and refreshment with it on the 
hottest summer noon, the wind that Hilda loved and 
made a playmate of, was to Miss Van Brunt a terrible 
bugbear—a sort of standing accusation against the 
whole west Texas country. When it blew three days 
on end, she went to bed with a nervous headache. 
When the domestic affairs of the household grew too 
puzzling, she went to bed with a headache, anyhow; 


28 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


one day Hilda heard Buster say to Missouri in the 
kitchen, “This here ranching proposition’s got the New 
York lady plumb buffaloed. Yet she’s sort of game, 
too—so game she won’t holler. I like to watch her 
not knowin’ what the mischief’s a-comin’ next, nor 
whichaway to turn, and pretendin’ she’s plumb wise to 
the rules.” 

“It would be impossible. We never did so in New 
York. The Van Brunts do not do things that way.” 
These were Miss Valeria’s weapons of defense, the 
statements with which she met and repelled clamorous 
demands. 

“Just a ladylike way of yellin’ ‘scat’ to the whole 
business,” said Buster. 

As for the outside affairs, a mere change of owner¬ 
ship was a small matter, so long as Hank Pearsall’s 
experienced hand still guided them, and they seemed 
to run smoothly enough. Charley Van Brunt, too, 
lived at the ranch of the Three Sorrows, a guest—a 
quiet, graceful guest—whose incompetence was a shield 
against responsibility. He endeared himself at once to 
his men by the unvarying courtesy and sweetness of 
his bearing and the boyish recklessness he displayed 
when he chose and rode a horse, selecting always for 
looks and style, without regard to the beast’s disposi¬ 
tion. It was plain that he drank heavily in the long 
evenings when he sat alone in the library, his man¬ 
ager, looking on, hoping that as the first keenness of his 
grief wore away, this matter would be bettered. 

But it was the other way. When Charley began to 
rouse from the stupor of bereavement, he began also 
to leave the ranch, on trips to Mesquite, and beyond 
to El Centro; whence the news came back to Hank 
that Van Brunt was drinking hard and playing high. 
He found by natural instinct the clever, well-bred, 


THE FIRING SQUAD 29 

profligate young Englishmen over on the Bar Thir¬ 
teen, pensioned—or exiled—by their own families; and 
after that, between the trips to town, there was drink¬ 
ing and card playing at the Bar Thirteen. In those 
days the Three Sorrows was the finest property under 
private ownership in the Panhandle, with pastures all 
fenced—a rare thing at that time—watered by three 
noble creeks whose springs were never dry. It had 
been well stocked when Katharine bought it. Now 
Hank looked helplessly on, thinking of the two chil¬ 
dren, saw the money from sales of beef poured into 
the bottomless pit of Charley’s dissipations. And he 
understood that more than one mortgage had been 
put on the place, and that a choice pasture had been 
sold outright. 

And Hank had another small worry, to which he 
finally applied his own remedy. The men loved to sit 
on the long back porch, chairs tilted against the wall, 
waiting for supper. They were freshly washed as to 
faces and hands, damply slick as to hair; their inno¬ 
cent enjoyment of company other than their Own was 
so evident that it would have been a hard heart indeed 
which would have grudged them the society of the 
children; yet Hank listened and was troubled. Did all 
cowboys swear so much? Had Snake Thompson’s lan¬ 
guage always been what it now appeared? This might 
be Charley Van Brunt’s ranch, Charley Van Brunt’s 
back porch, and these might be Charley Van Brunt’s 
children—well, as a matter of fact, the ownership of 
all the articles mentioned was so placed—yet Hank felt 
himself obliged to speak out and speak distinctly on 
the subject. 

“Boys,” he put it, “you-all have got to ride herd a 
little closer on your language. Swearing—leastways 
more’n reason—around where children air at—” 


30 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Say, Hank,” broke in Shorty O’Meara, “how much 
is in reason to swear when your stirrup leather busts 
on you, and your left eyebrow hits the ground?” 

“Aw, g’long with you,” Hank admonished, half 
sheepishly. “You know how much. If you don’t 
you’ll soon find out.” 

Old Snake Thompson’s sense of humor, liberty and 
justice was outraged. Snake used very little language 
of any sort; when he talked at all it was apt to be 
done almost exclusively in more or less conventional 
and automatic profanity, and he made husky protest: 

“But, Pearsall—Goddlemighty—I mean—how’s a 
man to talk? How’s a feller to express hisself? 
How’ll we get along without any o’ them words?” 

“Well,” said Hank dryly, “I could give you a pretty 
fair list of substitutes.” 

“Substitute cuss words?” 

“Yes, jest that. You may never have took notice to 
the fact that I don’t cuss, nor chew tobacker? Well, 
I used to do both—fact, I was something of a star 
performer in them two lines.” 

“What made you quit, Pearsall?” questioned Shorty 
discontentedly. 

“I quit,” said Hank, “when I got to be a family 
man, in a manner of speaking. I had a—there was a 
small chap at my place then, nigh about Pettie’s age, 
and I sort of looked it over, and made the change on 
the little feller’s account.” 

“Huh!” grunted Old Snake. Shorty made no com¬ 
ment, but Missouri said with feeling: 

“This da—durned cattle country is a mighty lone¬ 
some land, with few pleasures in it, if you ask me, 
and a man that neither chews nor cusses misses a sight 
o’ comfort.” 

“Oh, I dunno, Missou’,” the boss demurred mildly, 


31 


THE FIRING SQUAD 

“I’ve tried it both ways, and I don’t see much differ¬ 
ence in the comfort. I get as much good out of a cup 
of coffee as I used to get out of a jolt of red-eye. I’d 
ruther beller a camp meetin’ hymn, or ‘The Dyin’ 
Ranger’ than chew tobacker. ‘Con-twist it!’ or ‘Suf¬ 
ferin’ snakes’ or ‘My granny’ is the most horrible oaths 
I use.” He concluded with sudden seriousness, “I’m 
not a-joking; I won’t stand for it, boys; I’ll fire the 
first galoot that turns loose and cusses or talks rough 
around where the folks is at.” 

So the three S cowpunchers rode in off the range of 
an evening now, the most harmless associates for the 
little girl. About headquarters they spoke—though 
somewhat haltingly at times—a tamed and disciplined 
language, devoid of offense to the tenderest ears. 

The Capadines were to come over for noon dinner— 
which was the only meal you could take visiting on 
ranches, it seemed, unless you spent the night. Missou’ 
had said things—Uncle Hank went into the kitchen 
and shut the door when he said them—but finally he 
got the dinner, Uncle Hank keeping an eye on him to 
see that it was all it should be for company. Fayte 
Marchbanks had come, after all. Things went pretty 
well while the children were with the grown-ups, for 
it appeared that Fayte had nice company manners, 
when he cared to display them; Aunt Val thought him 
a very well-bred boy. But after dinner, Burchie in the 
house with Aunt Val and Mrs. Capadine, while the 
two fathers smoked on the porch, it began to be trying. 

On the journey out, among other and greater losses, 
a trunk containing the children’s toys had gone astray 
and was never recovered. So Hilda had nothing to 
offer for Maybelle’s admiration but one small china- 
all-over doll, which had been held out for her to play 
with on the train. She realized with a good deal of 


32 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


satisfaction that Fayte Marchbanks couldn’t scalp it; 
the hair was painted on its china head; small and 
rather miserable as it looked there were advantages. 

The two boys presently ranged off with Fayte’s air 
rifle, playing at hunting big game; the two girls settled 
down in the roots of a big tree and arranged for a 
little dinner. 

“I wish I’d brought my dolls,” Maybelle said dis¬ 
contentedly. “I would—only I thought you’d have a 
lot of your own. You said you had.” 

“I have, only—” and poor Hilda told again the 
story of the lost trunk. 

“Well, then, I should think they’d buy you some 
new ones, if they can’t ever get those again,” Maybelle 
argued. 

“They will,” said Hilda eagerly. “Father’s going 
to next time he goes to town.” 

“But he’s been in town lots of times since you lost 
’em,” said Maybelle, the practical. “Why doesn’t he 
bring you—one decent one, anyhow?” She looked 
scornfully at the china-all-over. 

“He forgets.” Hilda’s lip trembled, but it would 
never do to let any one see how cruel the hurt of this 
forgetfulness was. “That is, he has been forgetting 
it, but if ever he goes to Fort Worth he’ll remember, 
and then he’ll bring me the most beautiful doll that 
money can buy. It’ll be so long,” her trembling hands 
measured the length, “and have kid shoes and a white 
dress and a blue sash—he’s promised. Now I’ll go and 
get something for our party.” 

Hilda was gone to the house quite a while. Missou’ 
had been hard to persuade, and didn’t want to let her 
have the little cakes. When she came back she found 
Maybelle curiously excited, while the two boys stood 


THE FIRING SQUAD 33 

back, Clarke Capadine looking rather scared, Fayte 
grinning. 

“Will you boys come to our party?” she asked doubt¬ 
fully, taking stock of what Missou’ had finally given 
her, wondering whether it would be enough. 

Clarke muttered and looked down, but Fayte 
grinned more than ever. 

“Sure. Let’s make it a funeral—if there’s scraps 
enough to bury. The firing squad’s been here while 
you were gone.” 

And then she saw the scattered bits of china sprin¬ 
kled over the play-house, the rifle in his hand. 

Hilda didn’t know for a minute quite who it was 
that screamed. Something that was not herself seemed 
to come up in her throat and issue from her mouth in 
a volume of sound that scared the children and brought 
the men running from the porch. Quickly as they 
came, Uncle Hank was quicker. He had jumped 
away from the pony he was just about mounting over 
at the corral, and run across the lawn; Hilda was in 
his arms when her father and Mr. Capadine arrived. 

“What in time’s the matter?” the old man asked. 
Clarke Capadine had stood his ground, but Fayte 
Marchbanks was running. Hank caught sight of the 
gun in his hand. “Is the child shot?” 

“My doll! My doll!” Hilda’s voice had come down 
to a moan. “I hadn’t but just one, and—” 

Maybelle’s finger was in her mouth. She took it 
out to point to the little sprinkling of white scraps. 

“Hilda—are you hurt?” That was her father. “Put 
her down, Pearsall. See if she’s injured.” Uncle 
Hank set her on her feet. The gust of passion had 
gone by. She was weak from it—and terribly ashamed. 

“He broke her doll,” the old man explained. Hilda 


34 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


loved him for the serious tone. Maybelle giggled. 
Hilda heard another laugh somewhere, but it wasn’t 
Mr. Capadine, for he said: 

“That boy ought to be thrashed.” 

She turned and buried her face against Uncle Hank, 
sobbing now, but very quietly. 

“Hilda—don’t be silly,” came Miss Val’s impatient 
voice. “Go get another doll to play with. See— 
you’re spoiling all the good time for your little vis¬ 
itors.” 

“I—hadn’t—but just one,” it came very muffled 
from the folds of Uncle Hank’s coat. Her father said 
quickly, 

“Oh, that’s so. But, Hilda, I’m going to buy you 
more dolls. Be a good girl now. Stop crying.” 

“I don’t want but just one, papa.” Hilda choked, 
raised her head and tried to straighten her face. 
“When—when will you get me my doll?” 

They were all looking at her. It was a terrible mo¬ 
ment. Yet Hilda somewhat forgot it in the importance 
of that question. 

“The very next time I go to town,” said her father. 
“The handsomest one I can find, dear. Now go on 
with your play—and don’t let’s have any more hys¬ 
terics.” 

He went back to the house. Clarke Capadine had 
slipped away in the direction Fayte took. Uncle Hank 
stayed a few minutes, till he saw that Hilda seemed to 
be herself again, then he mounted and rode away to 
his work. 

But that evening, when Hilda came at bedtime to 
bid him good night, she looked so woe-begone, and her 
feet dragged so that he inquired: 

“Not afraid to go upstairs alone, air you, Pettie? 
Been seeing any of them Skulkin’ Door-imps lately?” 


35 


THE FIRING SQUAD 

She shook her head. 

“No—not much. That isn’t it. Never mind.” 

“Or Barrel-tops?” Hank pursued cheerily. “You 
let me know if any of them come around—and I’ll 
stave ’em in for you.” 

“The—the doll.” She got out the two words, and 
could manage no more, but let them lie as they fell. 

“Sure enough!” The old man caught her up in 
his arms and started for the stairs. “That doll-baby’s 
still on your mind, ain’t it? I know. Uncle Hank’ll 
carry you up to bed.” And on the way he whispered, 
“Never you mind, Pettie; there’s got to be a trip to 
Forth Worth right soon—Forth Worth—a real big 
city; and I’ll make sure your doll-baby comes back 
from there.” 


CHAPTER I VI 


THE DOLL 

I N two weeks after that Hilda’s father went to 
Forth Worth. Hank drove Charley to Mesquite. 
His last words, as he handed the valise up to his 
employer in the El Centro stage, were: 

u And once more, Charley, whatever else you do, or 
don’t do, for the love of mercy, don’t forget to fetch 
a first-class doll for Pettie. I’d ruther see you fail to 
close the trade with the J. R. Company—I’d ruther 
you forgot the whole everlastin’ outfit of supplies— 
than to have you come back without that there doll- 
baby. It’s a dirty shame that we big, two-fisted, long- 
legged men haven’t got the child a doll before this.” 

“All right, Pearsall; I’ll not forget.” Van Brunt 
shook the old man’s hand, and the stage drove away. 

Surely, now the beautiful doll was certain to come 
home! The evening Hank got back—and every eve¬ 
ning afterward—Hilda crept up into his lap to explain 
to him, over and over, how golden its hair should be, 
and what pretty tan shoes and white kid hands it 
should have. Now that—to her mind—the home¬ 
coming of the doll was made certain, the tide of feel¬ 
ing which had been so long repressed was loosened. 
The little tongue ran freely, the great dark eyes glowed 
as she repeated to him: 

“This long, Uncle Hank—just this long—bigger 
than any Maybelle had—see ?” The small hands meas¬ 
ured about fifteen inches of stature. “And blue eyes, 
I told him—like yours, Uncle Hank; not black, like 
mine and papa’s.” 


36 


THE DOLL 


37 


Uncle Hank’s admired blue eyes would dwell upon 
her with troubled gaze. He had done his best. He 
recalled that last admonition to Charley. But now, 
shrinking in mind at thought of the possibility of an¬ 
other disappointment for Hilda, but shirking the cruelty 
of hinting his dread to the child, he would say slowly: 

“Um—honey—why, Fort Worth, you know—Fort 
Worth ain’t New York. This here doll’s liable to be 
not much of a looker—no such doll-baby as you had 
before you come out here to Texas. It might not even 
be as good as some of the Marchbanks girl’s—” 

She would interrupt him, declaring earnestly, “Oh, 
Uncle Hank, it’s going to be very beautiful!” 

But there came no word from Charley Van Brunt; 
it was as though Fort Worth had swallowed him up. 
He was to have been gone a week; it was two, and he 
had not returned. The ranch boss wrote again and 
again to the hotel where his employer was to stop; 
even Hilda, with Uncle Hank guiding her little brown 
fingers, struggled through a small, smudged sheet of 
hieroglyphics. And when it was well into the third 
week and there was no answer, the manager sent 
Shorty to Mesquite with a telegram prepared entreat¬ 
ing an immediate reply. But he got none—no mes¬ 
sage of any kind returned to him from Fort Worth. 
Old Hank, smiling and cheerful, carried a very anxious 
heart. 

At the end of four weeks Van Brunt came home; a 
gentleman—oh, most certainly a gentleman, always; 
never less than that—but looking strangely ill and out 
of countenance. He was much thinner than when he 
went away, and much less sunburnt, and he had forgot¬ 
ten most of the matters which had taken him to Fort 
Worth. 

The child, who for days back had scouted contin- 


38 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


ually the long box-elder avenue leading up from the 
main trail, met the buckboard far down below the big 
gate. Charley stopped the galloping ponies with an 
arm thrown out across the driver’s hands, lifted the 
small courier and hugged her to his heart and kissed 
her. 

“Did she think Daddy had just run away and left 
them all? Well, Daddy was very busy; he—he had 
such a lot of tiresome business.” And, reaching down 
into his vest pocket, Yan Brunt brought out and gave 
to Hilda a five-dollar gold piece. 

In silence and in some apprehension she looked at 
the coin lying in her palm—as unavailable to her, as 
valueless in her eyes, as a yellow button. He had given 
it as though it were a precious thing, and Hilda just 
glimpsed the terrible suggestion that it might have 
been offered instead of a doll. No, no—that could 
not be—that was intolerable! She pushed the idea 
away from her as she sat so quiet-seeming to the care¬ 
less eye, but in truth in such a tumult of choking emo¬ 
tion, upon her father’s knee. 

Shyly and unobserved, her glance explored the buck- 
board. There was nothing whatever in it but her 
father’s valise; not a big valise, either; and her hopes 
and expectations dwindled. It would be a small doll; 
she saw that she must bring her desires down to that— 
and she did so. But she asserted passionately to her¬ 
self that it was there—it was in the valise. No doll at 
all!—oh, it was impossible—it was not conceivable! 
She shrank in panic from the thought. Heaven would 
not permit such a cruel thing as that. 

The house reached, the child stood about, in one 
obscure corner and another, watching, longing for the 
moment when the valise should be opened; amazed at 
the waste of time and talk, when the Important Things 


THE DOLL 


39 


of Life were waiting in that mysterious casket. Dur¬ 
ing an embarrassed pause, her father’s troubled eye 
caught sight of the little figure lingering in the door¬ 
way. He picked her up and lifted her high, demand¬ 
ing: 

“What is it now, my small daughter? Is there 
something you want to know of father?” 

This was a strange, an ominous sort of inquiry, and 
Hilda could barely choke out the words, “The doll,” 
in such a whispering, flattened voice as failed to make 
its way across the short distance from her trembling 
lips to her father’s ear, and he had to ask her over 
more than once. 

His face fell, almost comically. A look of pain and 
shame flashed over it. It was plain (at least to every¬ 
body there except poor Hildegarde, who still clutched 
tightly a tiny shred of hope) that he had never thought 
of the matter since the moment of uttering his care¬ 
less promise. 

“Run away, Hilda,” Miss Val began, peevishly. 
“Why do you bother about such a thing now—?” But 
Charley cut her short: 

“Why, dear,” his voice was husky as he set Hilda 
gently down, “I completely for—” 

Hank Pearsall’s eyes were watching her in deep con¬ 
cern. This was what he had dreaded. Now he shook 
his head warningly at his employer, over the little girl’s, 
and interrupted in a significant tone: 

“It’s all right, honey, it’ll be a-comin’ along with the 
freight stuff, when—” 

“No, Pearsall,” broke in young Van Brunt, in fresh 
distress. “No, Pearsall, there aren’t any things coming 
by freight. I—forgot ’em all completely. I’ll get—” 

It was too late. Hank could cover nothing now; 
the bitter truth was evident, even to Hilda’s incre- 


40 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


dulity, that there was no doll. Her father drew her 
to him, saying: 

“There, there, dear, don’t cry! Oh, Hildegarde, 
love, don’t cry! I can’t—” His face was white; he 
looked almost as though he were near to tears himself. 

“No, papa—no, papa,” she whispered, “no, papa, 
I won’t cry”; then crept away to have her agony alone, 
in her own private nook, an unused room upstairs, 
where there finally fell upon her the kind sleep of ex¬ 
haustion. 

The affairs of the house went on; supper was served 
and passed. Charley asked uneasily of the child’s 
whereabouts, and was diplomatically diverted by Uncle 
Hank. 

Hilda suddenly opened her eyes upon the darkness. 
She slowly realized that it was night, and that she was 
lying dressed upon the lounge in the sitting-room. 
Somebody had taken off her shoes and tucked some 
covering over her. The strange feeling was upon her 
which people have when they go to sleep irregularly, 
at some unusual time and place, not dressed for bed. 

At first she was dazed and remembered nothing of 
the afternoon’s happenings; then her sorrow came 
rushing back upon her in a flood. But the aftermath 
of grief was tearless. Poor baby—she had wept the 
fountain dry. 

Now, as she lay, inert, she could hear the murmur 
of voices. They were men’s voices. Rising, strangely 
stiff and weary, she crawled across the dark hall and 
peered through the chink of an imperfectly closed 
door. The room into which she looked was the office, 
and the scene which met her wondering eyes was a 
curious one. There was that sewing-machine which 
the child’s mother had purchased and prepared to take 
with her household supplies to the Texas ranch. Sit- 


THE DOLL 


41 


ting before it, and beneath the strong light of the hang¬ 
ing lamp, was Uncle Hank, in full cow-puncher regalia, 
just as he had come in from some urgent outside er¬ 
rand. The broad brim of his sombrero was swept di¬ 
rectly off his face, to be out of the way; the grizzled 
curls lay on the collar of his rough blue flannel shirt, 
and his trousers were tucked into the tops of cowboy 
boots, whose high heels, armed with long-shanked 
spurs, clicked upon the treadles. His sinewy brown 
fingers were twisting a thread to induce it to go through 
the eye of the needle. Bending anxiously over him was 
her father, in smoking jacket and slippers. It was 
some moments before Hilda could view this scene with 
anything but incredulity, or believe it other than a 
dream. 

About the feet of the men was a tremendous litter 
of things very strange to see in that place. There were 
yards of white muslin, and sheets of newspaper cut 
into queer shapes; on the floor a comforter—the pink 
silk one off the big front-room bed—ripped open and 
with its snowy cotton bulging out; a long-fleeced An¬ 
gora goatskin that commonly lay in front of that same 
bed. As, wide-eyed and wondering, the child crouched 
silently at the door, the men were talking in low, 
guarded tones. Her father spoke first: 

“Can you make it work, Pearsall? I don’t know 
what I did that was wrong, but it ran crooked and puck¬ 
ered, even before it broke the thread.” 

“Uh-huh I” returned the old man softly. “She’s lia¬ 
ble to buck a little at first; but if ye don’t spur her in 
the shoulder or fight her in the face, she’ll soon travel 
your gait. See?” For the machine had settled down 
to a steady purr. “Gimme somethin’ to sew—any¬ 
thing, to try it on.” 

The child saw her father duck his sleek black head 


42 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


to pick up a scrap from the floor. Then she heard 
his laughing voice: 

“Pearsall, I believe those long-shanked spurs of 
yours are what tamed down this bucking sewing-ma¬ 
chine. I didn’t have mine on.” 

“Shucks!” murmured Hank deprecatingly, bending 
to unbuckle. “That beats my time! I plumb forgot 
them spurs. Don’t blame ye a mite for laughing. 
That’s an old cowpunch, every time. It’s a wonder 
I didn’t try to ride in here on a cutting pony, with my 
guns on, and what you call a ‘lariat’ swinging! 
Shucks!” 

He removed his big hat, dropped the jingling spurs 
into its crown, and reaching far over laid it back on 
the desk. 

“If I was in your place, Charley,” he said over his 
shoulder, “or ruther, if I was a nice, polite gentleman 
like you, and owned a ranch—I wouldn’t keep an old 
galoot for my ranch boss that didn’t have manners 
enough to remember to take his spurs and sombrero 
off when he came into my office.” 

Charley’s reply was only a smile and an expressive 
look. 

The small watcher at the door gazed, still unable to 
entirely convince herself that she was really awake. 
Her father said presently, in a rather depressed voice: 

“No, this wouldn’t do—not near. We’ll have to 
make a long improvement over it.” 

He took up something from the floor. Alas, this 
must indeed be a brownie dream—but what a dread¬ 
ful version of it! That which her father held and 
looked dolefully at was an atomy—a thing in human 
form—of a livid, blue-white, like a leper, and of 
ghastly outline, warped where the ill-guided sewing 
machine had wavered in its line of stitching. The be- 


THE DOLL 


43 


ing had a small, narrow, cone of a head, a neck like a 
pipe-stem, and limbs, long, attenuated, and lumpy 
where they had been stuffed hard with cotton rammed 
home by the help of penhandles, in an attempt to round 
out the starved proportions. 

The child looked at this specter in dismay. Truly, 
it did fall short of grace—even of decent seemliness. 
She was glad her father thought so. She should never 
be able to produce a grateful countenance or bring 
forth any satisfactory thanks for a scarecrow like 
that. He spoke now: 

“If we fall down on this doll factory business—well, 
when we fall down, for I see that is what’s coming; 
I’ve already made a mess of mine, and I bet anything 
you like that you’re not going to do any better—when 
we’ve tried it out and find we can’t fetch it, what I 
want of you, Hank, is to tell her—promise her—” 

“No more promises, Charley,” Uncle Hank said, 
stuffing away at something he held out of Hilda’s sight. 
“If you’re leaving it to me, I say either dance up with 
the doll for her birthday or don’t hurt the poor baby 
any worse than she’s been already hurt with promises.” 

“Her birthday!” Hilda swallowed a sob at her 
father’s startled tone. “Hank—do you know I’d for¬ 
gotten absolutely that to-morrow is the child’s birth¬ 
day!” 

Something warm came to the little watcher from the 
glance of Uncle Hank’s blue eyes as he looked up. He 
hadn’t forgotten it. She guessed now that when he 
was in the kitchen there with Missou’ so long, and she 
wasn’t allowed to come in, it must have been a birth¬ 
day cake that was being baked. She tried to tell her¬ 
self that this would make up for the lack of a doll. She 
wished Uncle Hank wouldn’t say that about promises 
—they were better than nothing—better, anyhow, than 


44 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


having some such frightful thing as that which dan¬ 
gled from her father’s hand offered to her as a doll. 
She was glad when he insisted rather desperately: 

“But I say, Pearsall, you’ll have to promise her one. 
She’ll believe you. We can’t get anything out of this 
that will fill the bill.” 

“Can’t? Why, we’ve got everything to do it with, 
Charley. I’ve gentled this sewing-machine; here’s 
white domestic, and cotton to stuff with, and all the 
need-cessary materials. As for a pattern, why, you’ve 
got me to go by, and I’ve got you, in the mere number 
and placing on of arms and legs and such.” 

He glanced at the object in Van Brunt’s hands. 

“I reckon you went mostly by me—in the—the— 
geography of that critter. Gosh! Charley, it’s a 
plumb straddle-bug, and whopper-jawed at that! Now 
—here”— the sentences came out in sections, irregular 
fragments, through many pins and needles and other 
implements which Hank held in his mouth— “here—I 
have went by you. We’ve got to cut ’em tolerable fat, 
or they stuff too slim; I see that. That’n”—he 
chuckled softly—“that lean lizard’s a Pearsall—and a 
Pearsall I don’t want to acknowledge. But this is a 
pretty fair Van Brunt. She’s most ready for clothes 
now.” 

“I’ll bring some of my things,” Van Brunt suggested, 
turning toward the door to his own room. 

Hank looked dubious. “It’s lady fixin’s—flub-dubs 
—we want—fancy ke-didoes, ye know. Course, we 
can’t wake up Miss Valeria to get ’em—but I don’t 
suppose a man’s riggin’s would—” 

“A man’s riggin’s!” echoed Van Brunt, laughing un¬ 
der his breath. “You don’t know much, Hank. Just 
wait a minute!” and he was gone. 

Hilda’s already overburdened heart sank at the 


THE DOLL 


45 


thought of the morrow. That she should fail to offer 
some sort of gratitude for these well-meant efforts on 
her behalf never occurred to her. The awful gulf 
which yawns between a child’s point of view and that 
of the grown-up gaped black at the seven-year-old’s 
feet; yet she was loyally resolved to bridge it, when the 
time came, with such show of enthusiasm as she could 
muster. 

Her father had gone through the further door. 
Uncle Hank had quit the motion of his elbow that she 
knew meant stuffing, and was threading a needle. He 
spoke softly to himself; he had a way of doing that; 
Hilda loved it. 

“H’m—promises! Pettie got promised every time 
he went to Mesquite that she’d be brung such a doll 
as could be got there. It was forgot. It’s been for¬ 
got this time. Any feller that promises her any more 
dolls from anywheres is bound to look to her like 
somebody that promises to brings dolls—and then 
forgets.” 

Poor Charley Van Brunt! The old man had an¬ 
other listener. He had come back, his hands full of 
stuff he was bringing to dress the doll, and he stopped 
in the door. 

“You’re right, Pearsall,” he said soberly and Hilda 
didn’t understand till she was older that queer thing 
he said afterward. “I’ve all my life been promising 
to bring home dolls to the people I love and who love 
me and depend on me—and forgetting. You know 
what I mean. If it wasn’t dolls of some sort, then it 
would be dolls of another—repentance, reformation, 
amendment—all dressed up and shining. But I’ve 
always brought the valise home empty, haven’t I?” 

“Well—and if so, Charley—if so? No reason you 
shouldn’t fly at it and make good right on the ground.” 


46 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


‘‘All right,” her father’s tone was grave enough to 
mean a great deal more than the present enterprise; 
he spread out his color box and paints on the desk, 
made some further exclamation in a low tone, and went 
to work. There was silence in the office. Hilda knew 
that she ought to slip away. She was just going to do 
so when she saw Uncle Hank purse up his lips, look 
very fiercely at the needle which he was holding at a 
considerable distance from his face, finally thread it, 
and begin to speak, not to her father at all but to 
something he had evidently propped up on his end of 
the desk in front of him. It must be that product he 
had called “a pretty fair Van Brunt.” Shaking a fin¬ 
ger at it, he began to sew on some small white object, 
glancing occasionally over his spectacles toward the in¬ 
visible doll, murmuring to her: 

“Now, you set there, Miss—well, what is your 
blessed name?—Miss Bon Bon—Miss High SteppeV— 
Miss Tip-Top—and mind how you shoot off your 
mouth to-morrow. Ye want to be mighty clear on one 
point, and that is that you came from Fort Worth. Pa 
was just saving a little surprise when he failed to men¬ 
tion you to Pettie to-day. You was right there in that 
grip of his’n all the time; so don’t let me hear any 
remarks about a bronco sewing-machine, nor white do¬ 
mestic, nor Charley’s paint-box, nor Uncle Hank’s 
number forty sewing thread. Mind what I’m telling 
you, Miss Tip-Top; we don’t want a word of and con¬ 
cerning the spare-room bed-comfort. Fort Worth’s 
where you come from—Fort Worth; a-bringing the 
latest fashions in young-lady dolls; and Pettie’s not to 
be told things.” 

Such discounting of her delight in the doll! It was 
a relief to her when, a moment later, her father raised 
his head to say: 


THE DOLL 


47 


“Look there, Pearsall—there are the petticoats and 
such like.” Charley spread out handkerchiefs of ex¬ 
quisite linen cambric. “And this,” unfurling a bro¬ 
caded white satin muffler a yard or more square, 
“there’s enough stuff in this for a frock.” He put 
down several four-in-hand ties. “Those blue ones are 
exactly alike; enough of a kind to make the dolly a 
sash.” 

“Yes, that’s right, Charley. I’ll sew ’em together 
and press ’em out and rig her a surcingle of ’em. The 
Fort Worth doll was going to have a blue surcingle— 
a blue sash—I ricollect.” 

Suddenly Hank dropped the ties; a look of per¬ 
plexity, almost of consternation, spread over his 
face. 

“Great Scott, Charley! I’ve just this minute remem¬ 
bered—do you know that Pettie figured that doll was 
a-going to show up with white kid hands, and tan shoes 
on its feet—tan shoes! Now, how in time are we 
going to fix that?” 

“I’ll show you,” whispered Van Brunt, as he once 
more hurried out of the room. He was back the next 
minute, with a pair of heavy tan driving gloves and a 
pair of white ones. 

“Oh, fine, boy—scrumptious!” Uncle Hank’s eyes 
fastened upon them with a pleased look. Then he hes¬ 
itated, holding one of them up to note that it was 
fresh and new. “But these are mighty good gloves, 
Charley, to—” 

“I hope to heaven they are!” cried Van Brunt, and 
his pale face reddened. “I hope they’re good enough 
to make right a man’s broken promise.” 

Uncle Hank said no more. One at each side of the 
desk, the two men worked for a time in silence, the 
watcher at the door drawing her breath softly lest it 


48 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


betray her presence. Suddenly the elder man began 
to speak: 

“Ye see, Charley, I was a widder’s boy—the oldest; 
and the mother she used to make doll-babies for the 
little chaps. I’ve set up of nights toward Christmas, 
before now, to work this-here sort of racket. But 
mammy and me, we couldn’t paint—nary one of us— 
not a bit. A lead-pencil or pen and ink; eyes and nose 
and mouth—laid out mighty flat and square, I’m bound 
to say—’twas all the face them dolls of ours ever got. 
The hair was generally ink, too. The best we could do 
in that line would be some onraveled tow rope. This 
here Miss High Stepper’s face and hair are simply the 
finest ever.” 

As he spoke he moved aside a little, and Hilda 
caught her breath in a gasp of incredulous joy. What 
vision of delight was this Uncle Hank held forth, turn¬ 
ing his head to look at it sidewise, half questioning, half 
pleased? 

Muslin had furnished the ground tone for its deli¬ 
cate complexion. Charles Van Brunt, with the help of 
his color-box, had been placing thereon not the usual 
countenance of the store doll, but the roguish face of a 
gay little mischief. There was nothing tame in her 
sweetness. Heavily black-fringed blue eyes looked out 
at you with stimulating significance. The lips smiled 
saucily. The long-fleeced Angora goatpelt had yielded 
a head of streaming crinkled tresses, which (after an 
interview with the color-box) showed an adorable gam¬ 
boge tint. Head and body were fairly proportioned 
and well-shaped; and small anatomical inaccuracies 
were more than compensated for by her beaute du dia- 
ble. 

“What’s the matter with that?” cried the young 
father boyishly. “Say, she’s a corker, Hank!” 


THE DOLL 


49 


But now a new thought came to Hilda, which made 
her drag her fascinated eyes resolutely from the beauti¬ 
ful, smiling water-color face. They wished her to 
know nothing of the doll—to be surprised. With a 
last doting glance which caressed its perfections, she 
moved noiselessly back across the dark hall and into 
the sitting-room, shivering but ecstatic; oh, how differ¬ 
ent a creature from the bereaved little soul who had 
crossed that room, leaden-footed, sore-hearted, but a 
few moments back! She drew her slim legs up deli¬ 
ciously under the warm covers that seemed to close 
about her like the very arms of love, and with a deep, 
deep sigh of perfect peace, relaxed her comforted spirit 
to sleep. 

Silence enfolded the ranch house. All the little noc¬ 
turnal sounds that noisy daylight blurs or blots out 
gradually became audible. Somebody walked across 
the upstairs hall in stockinged feet. There was a 
stamping among the ponies down at the corral. A lit¬ 
tle owl called sleepily from the willows over by the 
irrigating ditch. 

Hours afterward, when she wakened—this time on 
her bed in her own room, whither she had been carried 
and undressed in that sound sleep—she found a radiant 
being perched upon a table beside her pillow. 

Save for the presence of the doll herself, the child 
could never have believed but that the vision of last 
night was a dream. When later Uncle Hank ex¬ 
plained to her, with her father’s assistance, that the 
beautiful Fort Worth doll had only been withheld from 
her the day before because it was a surprise, she ac¬ 
cepted the explanation with a look and manner singu¬ 
lar even for Hilda. There was something exultant in 
the seven-year-old’s bearing and in her thought. Her 
doll had a different origin from Maybelle Marchbanks’, 


50 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


or those that belonged to any other little girl in the 
world. Uncle Hank was not telling her the truth. It 
was not so, that her father had bought the doll. But 
her imaginative soul seized eagerly upon the spirit of 
the thing. All statements—and they were voluminous 
—concerning the importation and handling of Miss 
High Stepper (now Rose Marie) she understood to be 
figurative. This was not fact to which she was listen¬ 
ing; it was poetry—parable; and she answered in par¬ 
able of her own. 

She kissed them both passionately, and hugged the 
pretty doll to her with tears and with laughter, dwell¬ 
ing ardently upon each personal beauty and each sepa¬ 
rate elegance of attire; the arch, expressive eyes, the 
dainty tan shoes—all from Fort Worth; that is to say, 
all found and purchased in, and brought to Hilda out 
of the blessed country of Love and Good Faith. 


CHAPTER V 

POOR CHARLEY 

H ANK PEARSALL, used enough to the drink¬ 
ing that belongs with life in the western cattle 
country, the town outbreaks of hard-muscled 
cowpunchers who live under the open sky, watched with 
dismay the very different sort of drinking that his 
young employer indulged in. 

After that miserable Fort Worth episode and the 
arrival of Rose Marie, things were never quite so bad 
again. Charley eased up on the trips to town, and to 
the hard-drinking ranches. The Sorrows was already 
so crippled, its resources so reduced that a day of reck¬ 
oning must certainly be at hand; but Hank knew that 
no more land was being sold, no more big sums bor¬ 
rowed on mortgage. And again Van Brunt made spas¬ 
modic efforts to interest himself in the ranch work. To 
the old man at this time Charley had the pathetic 
charm of a repentant child. The entire household 
management had slipped into the boss’s hands; Hank 
was but fifty-two, yet he seemed like an indulgent father 
with an incompetent son and his family in charge. 

Hilda could read. She hardly remembered a time 
when she wasn’t able to make a sense that satisfied 
her, anyhow, out of the words and letters under the 
pictures in her story books. She had a curious habit 
of looking at these and partly “making up” as she 
went along, entertaining herself with such tales as they 
suggested. At first, her father laughed at it; then, in 
his careless, haphazard way, tried a bit of teaching. 
51 


52 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


But this was a sort of work that took patience; it was 
easier to read aloud to the child; and so the lessons 
usually ended up that way. Uncle Hank, listening, 
gave the sober opinion that a child of Pettie’s age 
“ought to have schooling.” 

“And I think I can manage it, Charley,” he said to 
his employer. “They need a school in the neighbor¬ 
hood. There’s eight or ten kids of the right age with¬ 
in riding distance.” 

“Go ahead, then, Pearsall. You’ve lived here—you 
know how to tackle the matter,” Van Brunt answered 
easily. 

So Uncle Hank got Capadine, McGregor, and three 
other ranches to “join in”; an adobe hut that, before 
the day of fences, had been a sign camp, was put in 
repair; an enthusiastic young woman brought out from 
Kansas; and what the cowpunchers instantly christened 
“Hank’s Academy” was started with eight pupils. It 
was Pearsall himself who took Hilda over the first 
morning, and tenderly launched her on the tide of 
school life. After that, she rode alone on Papoose, 
the fat little red pony he had got for her. Hilda’s 
school and Hilda’s lessons became an important house¬ 
hold interest. 

Then came a time of roundups. Charley was still 
making efforts to be a ranchman. His help on the 
range might have been of questionable value, but at 
least Charley himself was getting moral and physical 
benefit from the riding. 

Upon a morning that Hilda never forgot, the round¬ 
up was working a mile or so from the house and within 
sight of the school playground, a mere hard-trodden 
spot of plain outside the south window, where small 
feet had worn off the grass. She had begged to stay 
home from school and go with the Three Sorrows out- 


POOR CHARLEY 53 

fit. Her father would have allowed it, but Uncle 
Hank put in mildly: 

“Best not, Pettie. I’d stay with the lessons while 
we got a teacher.” 

She had teased and even pouted a little, so that 
Uncle Hank finally allowed that she might ask Miss 
Belle to be excused at morning recess. This request 
the teacher denied. They were having special work. 
In the cattle country, if you begin stopping school for 
roundups, education will fare ill. So she went out to 
the south of the house with the released, yelling chil¬ 
dren who were playing at roundups of their own, de¬ 
pressed and somewhat bitter, refusing to join when 
they roped at each other. She could see the cloud of 
dust that rose above the herd; she could just make out 
the smaller bunch that was “the cut,” held at a distance 
from the main herd; and riders swaying out to head 
galloping animals into it, moving swiftly like toy mech¬ 
anisms. Her heart was hot with resentment. She 
ought to be there right now. Uncle Hank would let 
her ride old Paddy and help hold herd. She could be 
lots of use—Miss Belle didn’t know that. 

She gave several longing glances to where Papoose 
was staked out, on the further side of the schoolhouse, 
and began to walk. 

She kept on walking, her back to the school, her face 
to the roundup, until she was as near to the one as 
the other. When the bell rang to call the others in, 
she calculated that it was too late for her to get there 
in time—she might as well go on. She walked faster, 
and finally began to run. 

It was a general roundup of everybody’s cattle. The 
C Bar C outfit was there, but Clarke Capadine was back 
at the schoolhouse, sitting on a bench, singing the mul¬ 
tiplication table—they always had that after morning 


54 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


recess. Kenny Tazewell, of the Quien Sabe—Kenny 
was big enough to help some, and his papa almost al¬ 
ways let him come. But he also was slaving at the mul¬ 
tiplication table. There would be no one to divide the 
glory of the roundup with her. She went forward 
more resolutely. 

Uncle Hank was at the chuck wagon. He wasn’t a 
bit surprised to see her. 

“Miss Belle let ye off all right, did she?” he in¬ 
quired casually, and Hilda didn’t even have to answer, 
for he turned and hurried down to the branding pen 
where the men were laboring like demons to keep up 
with the cutters and handlers. 

Papa didn’t see her at all. He was changing horses 
over by the roped corral. She saw him get on the 
little gray. It always pranced most splendidly, but 
Uncle Hank had said it wasn’t much of a cutting pony. 
She watched him mount and ride. She loved to see 
her father on horseback. He looked so beautiful, 
among the other men, it made her think of knights and 
tourneys. He fetched a half-circle around the cattle, 
out of her sight. She dropped down beside the chuck 
wagon and sat quite still. It would not be prudent to 
put herself forward just yet. As for to-morrow, and 
Miss Belle’s explanations—after them, the deluge. 

She knew the cook; it was Limpy Phillips of the 
C Bar C. He only made one or two derogatory re¬ 
marks about children at roundups. When he was busy 
at his covered pots and Dutch ovens in their trench, 
she earned toleration by mutely handing him the thing 
he needed from the chuck wagon. At five minutes to 
twelve he straightened up and told her she might go 
tell her Uncle Hank that dinner was ready, and she 
better look sharp and mind that the whole blame herd 
didn’t run over her and stamp her flatter’n a flapjack. 


POOR CHARLEY 


55 


She got to the branding pen. Uncle Hank came to 
its bars. She was just about to give her message, 
when something in the old man’s face stopped her. He 
was looking toward Shorty, who came galloping, a 
hand up, his mouth open. She knew Shorty must be 
calling, though in the din of the roundup she couldn’t 
hear any word. Uncle Hank jumped the bars and ran 
toward the oncoming rider, and then she got the cow- 
puncher’s voice. 

“Pearsall—Charley’s hurt.” 

With one motion Hank swung around, flung the 
reins over Buckskin’s head, was on him and away. The 
two men galloped side by side. Hilda began to run. 
She had no memory of the cook’s errand, no fear of 
the herd or the hard-driven horses. She ran desper¬ 
ately, blindly, till stopped by old Snake Thompson’s 
voice and hand. 

She was picked up as a big dog picks up a puppy. 
Old Snake had scooped her from the ground in the 
manner of a cowpuncher lifting a handkerchief in a dis¬ 
play of fancy riding. 

“Lookee here,” he said with irrelevant wisdom, 
“children should be saw, not heard. What in time are 
you doing here?” 

“My papa—he’s hurt—” 

“Where’s he at?” 

“Over there.” She pointed. “Uncle Hank went— 
Shorty— Oh, hurry!” 

Thompson began circling toward the other side of 
the herd, Hilda on the saddle in front of him. Mc¬ 
Gregor of the Cross K thundered up behind them. 

“Is it Charley?” called Thompson. 

“Yes.” McGregor checked a little to explain, “Bus¬ 
ter says he ran into an old cow—rode her down full 
tilt. Horse’s neck’s broke.” 


56 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


They suddenly rounded the shoulder of the herd, 
that mass of dark, bellowing, pawing life, with its rest¬ 
less hoofs and shaken horns, and came in sight of a 
group at a little distance from its edge, motionless, 
with a sense of arrest. Three men, four ponies, and 
something dark on the ground. Capadine came run¬ 
ning toward them. 

“How bad is it?” asked McGregor. 

Capadine glanced toward Hilda. 

“He’s breathing.” 

Hilda heard the word while old Snake was lifting 
her down. Uncle Hank was kneeling by that some¬ 
thing on the ground. 

“Move back a little, boys. Don’t crowd around him 
that-away,” she heard him say. They opened out, and 
she caught sight of the still features, the closed eyes, 
of her father. As she looked, those eyes fluttered 
open, the head moved. 

“That you, Pearsall?” came the whisper. “Get me 
home.” 

The ranch boss bent closer. 

“Are you sufferin’, Charley?” he asked. 

“No,” was the dubious response. “No, I’m not in 
pain.” 

“God!” groaned Snake under his breath; and Mc¬ 
Gregor dropped his head. Hilda wondered that they 
should be so dismayed. Surely it was good that father 
was not in pain. 

Uncle Hank got to his feet. The eyes that had 
gazed so fearfully at Charley went keenly round the 
circle of faces. If he saw Hilda, he made no sign; but 
there was a sharp scrutiny for the horse that looked 
over each man’s shoulder. 

“Jeff—Buster—” he muttered under his breath, 
with a wavering return of his glance to the injured 


POOR CHARLEY 


57 


man’s face—“No. Mex, is that pony of yours fresh?” 

“Yes, sir.” The slim, wiry cowpuncher put an eager 
hand up on his blue roan’s mane. “He’ll do whatever 
you ask of him.” 

Charley’s eyes had closed again. Hilda wanted very 
much to creep in closer to him, but dared not. Uncle 
Hank was doing everything. 

“Pull straight for Mesquite,” she heard him say to 
Mex. “Stop at the Lazy F for a fresh pony if that 
one gives out. You can get another at the Circle 99 
company’s, if you need it. If Doc. Elder ain’t in Mes¬ 
quite, nor anywhere in riding distance, and if any¬ 
thing’s the matter that you can’t get him, go on to El 
Centro for McClosky. Don’t come back without a 
doctor. Have you got money?” 

Hilda’s eyes followed the motions of Buster and Jeff 
who were pulling the saddles from two ponies and un¬ 
folding the blankets. She heard McGregor offer to 
attend to the money for Mex and see to the Three 
Sorrows cattle in the roundup. Uncle Hank thanked 
him, and stooped once more to her father. 

“Bring me them blankets now, boys,” he said. 
“That’s right—one over the other, that-away. Shorty 
—Jeff Allen—Bud McGregor,” they were laying the 
blankets on the ground close beside her father. Uncle 
Hank looked around. “Jim—where’s Jim Tazewell?” 
he asked. “Here, Jimmie; to this side. Kansas, you 
get acrost from him. Now, the six of you—slip your 
hands under him as far as you can and ease him onto 
the blankets.” 

They stooped, shouldering close. Hilda could see 
nothing but their backs. She felt a sick shutting-in at 
the heart as they lifted. Then came Uncle Hank’s 
voice again. 

“Did we hurt you, Charley?” 


58 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


They were placed now, three on a side, ready to 
take up the blanket. Hilda could see her father. His 
eyes were still closed, but his lips shaped themselves 
into an unheard “No.” Cautiously they stepped out 
on the mile trip to the ranch house. Hilda ran beside 
them, crouched a little, her hand out, not quite touch¬ 
ing them. She moved like a young partridge, startled 
from cover, and out of her eyes fear looked. Over on 
the playground school was turning out. Thin and clear 
came the treble whoops, as soon as they had left the 
noise of the roundup sufficiently behind them. It was 
very strange to think that over there they didn’t know; 
for them it was prisoner’s base and the multiplication 
table, just as it had been this morning. 

When the journey was little more than half done, 
the six bearers stepping with infinite care, Van Brunt 
began to groan aloud. Uncle Hank was walking at 
his head, watching his face. 

“Where hurts you boy ? Does it joggle past bearin’ ? 
Ought we put you down and rest you a spell ?” 

He failed to catch the whispered reply at first. The 
bearers halted, and he leaned closer. 

“No.” Van Brunt motioned feebly with his hand. 
“Get on, boys ... I want to see the baby, before—” 

The big fellows carrying the blanket moved ahead, 
stepping short, watching pitifully. Charley groaned 
outright at every stride now; Hilda, beside him, 
moaned, too. Her eyes were so blinded with crying 
that she did not see the ranch house when it came in 
sight. Going up the long, tree-lined avenue to the 
front door, Uncle Hank bent and spoke to her. 

“Go in ahead, Pettie. Tell your aunt that your 
father’s bad hurt, and we’re bringing him.” 

Hilda had a sense of flying, of getting to the house 
at a single step. It happened that Aunt Val was just 


POOR CHARLEY 


59 


coming down the stairs. Hilda cried out her com¬ 
munication as it had been given, and turned back to 
the bearers, who were toiling up the porch steps. 

Miss Valeria moved uncertainly into the open door, 
got a glimpse of what lay in the blankets; her hands 
went up, she stumbled blindly, and Hank’s arm caught 
her as she fell. He let her down on the hall couch. 
Charley went past them, carried for the last time into 
his own house. 

“Pettie,” Hank gave the direction over his shoulder, 
as he followed, “you run find some one to look after 
auntie.” 

Jose’s wife was in the kitchen. Hilda caught at her 
skirts and dragged her toward the front hall, explain¬ 
ing as they went. She left the woman questioning, ex¬ 
claiming, and flew to the living-room. They had 
shoved out the couch, and were raising the blankets 
high, so that the injured man could be. laid gently down. 

This done, they stood about him, seven tall, white- 
hatted, deep-voiced cowpunchers, afraid to move or 
speak lest their tones be too loud for sick-room pitch, 
the creaking of their boots offend. In the silence, the 
rustling of their big, virile bodies, in the strain of feel¬ 
ing, sounded plain. Something pushed against Hilda 
in the doorway. It was Burchie, in his soiled play- 
frock. She took his little grubby hand and led him 
forward to Uncle Hank. The old man lifted him. 

“Charley,” he said. 

Van Brunt’s eyes unclosed. 

“The baby—here.” A faint motion of his hand 
indicated a place on the couch. Hank set the child 
there, and he remained motionless as a small image, 
only the wondering, distressed blue eyes going from 
one face to another. Hilda crouched in an inconspic¬ 
uous heap at the side of the bed, unnoticed; Burch’s 


60 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 

little hand reached down and grasped the shoulder of 
her dress. 

Van Brunt’s dark head on the pillow moved a bit 
from side to side. Uncle Hank bent over to try to 
ease his position. She saw the look which flashed up 
into the old man’s face as her father said: 

“I’ve made an awful mess of it.” 

Uncle Hank shook his head. 

“I’ve made beggars of these children.” 

Hilda hadn’t been sure, till he said “these children” 
that he knew she was beside him. 

“No, no, boy.” Uncle Hank’s eyes entreated, re¬ 
assured. “You was new to the ranching business. We 
all make our mistakes.” 

“Ah!” breathed the dying man, “I’ve made nothing 
else.” 

He closed his eyes and was silent for a minute. 
Then he opened them once more with that tearing 
groan. 

“Katie’s children—what’s to become of them?” 

Hilda took heart to reach out a shaking little hand 
and touch his fingers. They were chill, but they closed 
upon hers strongly. She wanted to say that he was 
not to be troubled, but such things were for grown-ups. 
She looked about on the cowpunchers, Shorty holding 
hard to the edge of his chair, old Snake Thompson 
over by the window shaken by rigors of feeling. The 
sun was sending long arrows in through the slit of the 
silken curtain beyond the couch. 

“Don’t worry. You’re a-goingto be all right,” came 
Hank’s full, grave voice. “The doctor’ll be here in¬ 
side of twenty-four hours. You’ll be all right.” 

“No,” Van Brunt stopped him with a husky whis¬ 
per. “I’m not going to live an hour. My children 
are orphans.” 


POOR CHARLEY 


61 


Plainly this tortured him more than bodily pain. 

“Would it quiet your mind, Charley, if I was to 
promise to stick to ’em always, exactly as if they was 
my own?” 

The great wave of relief that went over the white 
face on the pillow was sufficient answer, and Hilda 
looked to see her father get better at once; but what 
he said between labored breaths was: 

“God bless you, Pearsall. I’m leaving nothing but 
debts—” 

“ ’S all right, Charley—all right. They’s a-plenty— 
I’ll make it a-plenty. And God so deal with me as I 
deal by these children.” 

It was like a solemn ceremony; the picture of it as 
such remained with Hilda in after life, vivid, inefface¬ 
able. Her father on the bed, the sure knowledge of 
death in his eyes, Uncle Hank putting a brown hand 
over her own and Charley’s, the cowpunchers stand¬ 
ing about like witnesses to the pact. 

When it was done the father kissed them both. 
Hilda thought he was going to say something as he 
looked at her, but he rolled his head painfully on the 
pillow and murmured instead: 

“Take them out, now—take them away. Poor 
things—poor little things—I don’t want them to re¬ 
member—take them out, quick!” 

They were hurried from the room. Shorty picked 
up Burch, and Bud McGregor led her. They were 
lingering forlornly outside the closed door when Uncle 
Hank opened it a few moments later, and said: 

“You boys go with them to the bunk house.” He 
came fully into the hall and closed the door. “Hurry 
on with ’em—see about Miss Valeria as you go.” 

And he turned back into Charley’s room, to sit by 
the young fellow’s couch while he passed in anguish 


62 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 

down into the Valley of the Shadow, to reassure him 
in moments of respite from pain, with promises that 
the mortgages should be paid off, the children have 
education and opportunities. 


CHAPTER VI 
a child's world 

H ILDA sat on the floor in the hall, Burchie beside 
her. She was still a thin little thing; and 
though she had now come into the growing 
age—that period so called out of all the years it takes 
us to reach our full bulk and stature, eight-year-old 
Hilda had as yet not accomplished much of its work. 
She perched there with her slim legs drawn up so far 
that the pointed chin almost rested upon her knees. 
The gaze of the big, unwinking eyes was on the open 
doorway of the parlor. 

A child’s world is a strange place, not by any means 
the world of the adults about it. To the infant—view¬ 
ing all matters from another point—a table is a serious 
and interesting piece of furniture, with things upon its 
top that you cannot see; a chair, a somewhat less 
doubtful structure, which you sometimes climb, if you 
can, thereafter to sit upon it with your insufficient legs 
dangling. To it—even to a child of Hilda’s age— 
that which immediately surrounds it is life—is the 
world; the persons of its household and its social cir¬ 
cle make up humanity; the laws it there meets seem to 
its feebleness fixed as those of the Medes and Persians. 
Thus or so say the customs or decide the grown-ups 
—the infallible ones; it is well or grievous, but you 
cannot help it; you have no influence, much less real 
power, to change or to defy. 

To Hilda, sitting quietly there on the floor, the 
world was a great level plain, inhabited not so much 
63 


64 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


by mankind as by cattle. The capital of this realm 
was Home—not merely the Three Sorrows ranch- 
house as it had been in her father’s time, but the kind 
of home that Uncle Hank meant when he promised 
that dying father that the children should always have 
one. There are persons who spread around them this 
atmosphere of security against the jars and offenses of 
life, of safe comfort amid its loneliness or hostility; 
rich, selfless natures that dispel, as a flower its per¬ 
fume, the sense of home. Hank, tall, bearded, deep¬ 
voiced, so much man in all his attributes, yet carried it 
with him. He served it at the tail of a chuck wagon 
or in the one-night cow camp. One could even imag¬ 
ine him bringing it into the cold and unhopeful air of 
a palace. 

“Yes, we’ve got debts to pay and obligations to 
meet, and it’s goin’ to be close work for a spell,” he 
had said to Miss Valeria, when he talked matters over 
with the helpless, dismayed woman. “But there’s one 
thing sure, we’re a-goin’ to have a home for these chil¬ 
dren here in the meantime.” 

His first move was to build the long-delayed mess- 
house for the boys; his next to send away for a good 
Chinese cook. Thus came to them Sam Kee, elderly, 
silent, with all the best traits of his race; Sam Kee who 
made a garden and raised such vegetables as had never 
been dreamed of on the ranch, who would lay aside 
his usual reserve and scold shrilly to get the right cows 
kept in the right pasture for the making of butter and 
cottage cheese. Sam Kee had become the corner stone 
of domestic comfort at the Sorrows, where now the 
little family ate alone, Uncle Hank at the foot of the 
table, Miss Valeria at the head, while the boys had a 
cook of their own. 

To be sure there sat enthroned, away in Chicago or 


A CHILD’S WORLD 


65 


Kansas City, a vague power known as The Price of 
Beef. Inexorable, unapproachable, arbitrary, it ruled 
this mortal life. To it all questions of improvement 
in one’s material well-being were referred. By it all 
earthly hopes, all ambitions and vanities, stood or fell. 
You needed shoes or stockings? You longed for piano 
lessons, or you had set your fancy upon a pink sash 
or a certain picture book? Well, if beef were “up” 
you probably got—upon proper representation—the 
object of your desire. But if beef were “down”— 
then, in the matter of piano lessons, pink sash, or pic¬ 
ture book, you did without; and so far as shoes and 
stockings were concerned, you just continued along with 
those you had. For Uncle Hank had made it plain to 
Hilda that the mark of all moral and mental inferior¬ 
ity—I had almost said degradation—was to sell beef 
when it was “down.” 

When Henry T. Pearsall was appointed guardian 
for the children of Charles Van Brunt, deceased, the 
administrator of their estate, when he entered upon the 
familiar task of making one dollar do the work of 
two, eking out money for the interest on mortgages, 
keeping things running until, as he phrased it, “he could 
sorter get his feet under him,” this Price of Beef ruled 
him too. 

But Miss Valeria Van Brunt had the strength of the 
weak, and Hilda heard with only a passing sort of sur¬ 
prise that Uncle Hank would, if necessary, even sell 
beef when it was down to send her and Burchie to Fort 
Worth. It seemed the crime was justifiable when 
something was the matter with your ears. 

For after Charley was gone, the monotony and the 
crudeness of ranch life seemed finally to become un¬ 
bearable to Miss Val. She came to Pearsall almost in 
tears, declaring that Burch had some sort of ailment 


66 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


which affected his hearing and that he ought to have a 
specialist’s care and treatment at a sanitarium. Uncle 
Hank was bewildered. 

“Something the matter with the boy’s hearing? 
What makes you think so, Miss Valery?” 

“Oh, I’m quite sure of it. Mr. Pearsall, you must 
have noticed that he’s not talking as he ought. When 
he wants anything, he just points to it. I have to 
make him speak.” 

“But when he does talk—it’s all right. I never 
heard a young ’un of his age speak so plain, I believe.” 

“That’s not the question. Mrs. Silcott says,” she 
was quoting the lady from Ohio now, “that her cousin 
had a little boy—or maybe it was a little girl—who 
was just the same, and that they let it run on till noth¬ 
ing could be done. The hearing was actually lost. 
The child became deaf and—finally dumb. This must 
be attended to, Mr. Pearsall, and at once.” 

Uncle Hank gave the little lady a long, puzzled look. 
But no one could argue with Miss Valeria Van Brunt 
when her mind was made up; he had found that out. 
After a while he said slowly: 

“Well, ma’am, I’ll get the money together just as 
soon as I possibly can. If you feel that-away about it 
—I guess the money’ll have to come.” 

Then he had added that statement about selling 
beef even though it were down. He didn’t have to do 
it that time, because he got a good chance to make a 
trade with McGregor. Yet the fact remained that he 
would have. He would even have put a mortgage on 
—and a mortgage must be an exceedingly desperate 
undertaking, for he looked that way when he said it. 

So Aunt Val and Burchie were to go to Fort Worth 
to a sanitarium there which some one had recom¬ 
mended. There had been great preparations in the 


A CHILD’S WORLD 


67 


past weeks, clothing ordered from New York, and this 
afternoon Aunt Val was entertaining at tea some ladies 
from the C Bar C and the McGregor ranch. She had 
told Hilda that, for the occasion, she might put on 
Burchie one of the new suits that had arrived, adding: 

“And do try to make yourself look nice, Hildegarde. 
I’m afraid you’re a very untidy little girl. Wash care¬ 
fully. Wash brother carefully, and pick out a new, 
plain dress—white linen will be best.” 

Good thing Aunt Val asked for white linen. It was 
about the only frock Hilda had that would have passed 
muster, and Miss Valeria was just as apt to have sug¬ 
gested something that had been worn out and outgrown 
long ago. If Hilda could have got the words together 
to say it, her statement would have been that the mere 
surface of things made altogether too much difference 
to her aunt—that with her the serious question was, 
not what was inside your head, but how was the hair 
on that head combed and smoothed up, how well the 
face on its front, the ears that ornamented its sides, 
kept washed? Always and always the thing you said to 
Aunt Val was of much less importance than the way 
you said it. 

Having listened to a jerky sermon as to what would 
be polite to say to the visiting ladies, Hilda had de¬ 
cided that silence was the wise policy, so she had re¬ 
treated as far as the hall with Burchie. She might not 
speak, but she couldn’t help hearing, and these tea-ing 
ladies—and in particular that friend of Mrs. Capa- 
dine’s from Ohio—had offended her deeply. They sat 
in the parlor, while here in the hall she played with 
Burchie, rounding up for his amusement cattle of twigs 
in pastures marked off by the pattern on the rug. No 
doubt the ladies looked at her and thought her a good 
child. They would have been startled to know that 


68 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


much of their talk was judged—and condemned—by 
the active brain beneath the damp, carefully smoothed 
down thatch of dark curls. 

Burch refused to be interested in the roundup of 
twigs. He made one of his silent demands for the 
building blocks that he loved to set up and tear down, 
set up and tear down again. They were on the shelves 
on the other side of the living-room. As Hilda was 
slipping through to get them, her aunt stopped her. 

“What is it, Hilda?” 

“I only wanted to get Burchie’s blocks. He doesn’t 
care to play roundup.” 

“And you do?” Stout Mrs. Capadine reached out 
a hand, and when Hilda stopped at her knee to say 
politely that she did, “Well, I expect you’ll be the 
ranchwoman of the family, then—a regular little cat¬ 
tle queen.” 

“Uncle Hank’s already taught me to ride pretty 
well,” Hilda told her seriously. “I have to grow a 
little taller, and my arms have to be longer, before I 
can learn to rope.” 

Once more back with Burchie and the play on the 
floor, she heard the Ohio lady caution, laughing: 

“Take care. Little pitchers have long ears, you 
know.” And Mrs. Capadine lowered her voice away 
down when she next spoke. 

“Well, when Mr. Capadine told me that Lee March- 
banks had applied for the guardianship of the children, 
I didn’t know but you’d asked him to act in that capac¬ 
ity, Miss Van Brunt; but I see that your arrangement 
with the present incumbent still stands.” 

“Act in that capacity” was a little beyond Hilda. 
She had no doubt that Colonel Lee Marchbanks could 
do it; and “present incumbent” was surely something 
disagreeable; but her uneasy mind settled on the ques- 


A CHILD’S WORLD 


69 


tion—what children the Colonel might wish to be 
guardian of. 

“No,” Aunt Val was speaking in her most New York 
voice, very languid, “I didn’t write to Colonel March- 
banks; he wrote to me. This man Pearsall is—er— 
well-meaning, of course, but I can’t help feeling that an 
educated person, a gentleman, such as Colonel March- 
banks seems to be, might be a more fortunate selec¬ 
tion.” 

“This man Pearsall!” They were talking about 
Uncle Hank. Then the children they spoke of were 
herself and Burchie. Mechanically, Hilda pushed the 
blocks about to keep Burch quiet, listening with all her 
ears now, while in the room there the talk went from 
bad to worse, till finally Miss Valeria spoke of Uncle 
Hank as uncouth. Hilda hadn’t much idea as to what 
that might mean; but it sounded bad. 

Justice was not to be had here; but there was a thea¬ 
ter which she maintained in her child’s mind, where all 
these elbowing and shoving assertions and commands 
—often both vague and contradictory—that Aunt Val 
put on people were turned right around and Hilda’s 
own idea of fair play and human satisfaction had the 
say. She herself was the character that adorned and 
ruled that stage, but not in any such guise as Hilda’s 
friends would have recognized. This was a presence 
of lofty stature, and of a countenance and glance insup¬ 
portable to evil-doers—a creature called forth by the 
helpless child fancy oftener than grown-ups suppose. 
For some reason whose explanation I will leave to 
others, it spoke always in shrill falsetto, that high sing¬ 
song which is the voice of the Chinese actor. But it 
never had to speak more than once. Not only people, 
but things and conditions, hustled to do its bidding. 

In there—right back in that parlor—Aunt Val, 


70 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


seated among her visiting ladies, had said that Uncle 
Hank used bad grammar! And the lady from Ohio 
had agreed that he was ignorant, though good-hearted. 
The big black eyes yet flashed; Hilda retired to her 
mental theater and hastily set its stage as the ranch- 
house parlor, dragging onto it Miss Val herself, the 
visiting ladies from their several ranches, and the pert 
outsider from Ohio. On chairs of unworthiness there 
she stuck the offenders. To them she saw enter this 
big, haughty, terrifying other self of hers. It came 
swishing through the room, about seven feet tall, irre¬ 
proachably clean of countenance, teeth and finger-nails, 
with conquering eyes and a paralyzingly correct toilet. 
Often it never spoke at all; merely froze the guilty 
ones into silence with one glance as it passed; but this 
was a time for plain speaking. 

Uncle Hank was not ignorant! Ignorant, yourself, 
Miss or Madam Ohio! Could it be possible that she, 
Hilda, alone of them all was aware that he knew more 
than anybody else in the world? Why, you starched- 
up lady with your gold spectacles and shiny slippers, 
it would need a lifetime’s toil for you to come into 
half his stored wisdom concerning coyotes and why 
they howl; touching prairie dogs, wild mustangs, cac¬ 
tus, jack rabbits, trail-herds, boggy fords, relating to 
“when we were down on the Pecos,” or “one spring on 
the Canadian,” or, “when cows stampede.” Uncle 
Hank was beautiful too. No one living had such eyes 
as those blue ones of his; his smile was as the very rays 
of the sun; his voice; his touch—! Hilda knew that 
sometimes children had to get along without relatives 
and without parents; but that any little girl could pos¬ 
sibly face existence without some sort of Uncle Hank 
was beyond her powers of belief. Supposing that she 
—even in her own proper and insignificant person—* 


A CHILD’S WORLD 


71 


should lead these glib scoffers to Uncle Hank’s trunk, 
lift the lid and show them where his Sunday suit lay? 
If that did not convict them of shallow judgments, 
surely the bottle of cologne would do the trick. It was 
imported, so Uncle Hank said; and to Hilda’s think¬ 
ing its possession was better than a patent of nobility. 

Hilda’s secret court of justice and the visit came to 
an end about the same time. The ladies, who never 
knew what they’d been through in the little girl’s mind, 
came out into the hall; the buckboard that was to carry 
two of them, the ponies for the others, were at the 
door. Hilda rose, made her bow and said her good- 
bys in that queer, artificial tone that pleased her aunt. 
Burchie had stood solid on his two feet; not a word 
out of him; just a pink fist up, methodically wiping off 
kisses—and Aunt Val let him. She and the ladies even 
exchanged pitying glances over the top of his head. 
But Hilda knew that Burch heard all they said per¬ 
fectly, and could have talked well enough if he’d 
wanted to—and surely Aunt Val knew it. Grown¬ 
ups—all but Uncle Hank—were dreadfully puzzling. 
Finally Hilda had led little brother away, given him 
his bread and milk, put him to bed, and now had come 
back to her evening perch on the door-stone where she 
always watched for Uncle Hank. 

While she sat there turning over these recollections 
in her mind, the warm gold had faded to delicate ashes- 
of-roses. The light waned with infinite gentleness and 
tenderness. A great spirit of quietness sighed across 
the open land, enfolding the few tiny evening sounds 
that began to make themselves heard. Her mind wan¬ 
dered from the questions she was going to ask Uncle 
Hank. It was funny about those little brown owls that 
sit up at the mouths of prairie-dog holes; how they will 
turn their heads to watch you as you walk around them, 


72 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


and keep right on turning, until, if you’d walk, around 
them often enough, they would wring their little heads 
right off. Oh, yes, they will. Indeed and truly. 
Shorty had seen ’em, mor’n once. 

A cooler air blew in from the southwest. The shine 
had gone from the window panes. A cricket chirped 
close at hand, and, without having consciously heard it, 
the child momentarily glanced that way. Then back to 
her vigil and her reflections. 

It was funny about a dogie. It was funny, and it 
was sad, too, that a dogie— 

Suddenly in the growing dimness, far out on the Ojo 
Bravo trail, a tiny speck began to vibrate. To the un¬ 
tutored gaze, it might well have been a jack-rabbit or 
a coyote, or even an idly cruising tumbleweed, but to 
the eyes that were watching it now, full of eager love, 
already deeply versed in plainscraft, that speck was in¬ 
stantly recognized as Uncle Hank on Buckskin. Aunt 
Val and the ladies who had been visiting her; the little 
brown owls who twisted off their own heads; the do- 
gies, those forlorn orphans of the range, whose affairs 
had barely swum over the verge of her mental horizon 
—all were thrust headlong into the rag-bag of oblivion. 
The little feet struck the ground with a sharp spat; 
lightly as a blown feather Hilda was off, running down 
the trail. 

That was approaching toward which the twenty-four 
hours so inevitably swung. The vibrating speck came 
nearer and nearer and resolved itself into a most know¬ 
ing-looking buckskin pony carrying a tall man clad in 
the usual dress of the cowpuncher. Galloping horse¬ 
man and running child continued to approach each 
other. They hailed simultaneously. 

“Hi, Pettie!” 

“Oh, Uncle Hank!” 


A CHILD’S WORLD 


73 


Buckskin wa9 checked; the grizzled head leaned far 
forward; one foot ill its cowboy boot was lowered from 
the stirrup; Hilda’s was planted on it; the small.brown 
hand caught^firmly in the big, strong one; and the child 
swung up in front of the old man. The pony, as he 
felt the additional weight settle into place, always 
started soberly on toward the ranch house. 

The regular thing after that was for the two on 
Buckskin to bring forward the record of history 
from the* point where it had been dropped—when 
they separated in the morning—to the present moment. 

Questions and answers usually alternated. The 
day’s happenings were tallied over. By one and by 
the other, possibilities were submitted and gravely 
passed upon, information volunteered, incidents re¬ 
counted seriously, yet in tolerant and hopeful spirit, 
the tousled black head leaning against the blue flannel 
shirt. Hilda was the putter of questions. Uncle Hank 
the answerer, the source of all wisdom. This evening 
she was scarcely up and settled before she began: 

“Uncle Hank, when papa died, did Fayte March- 
banks’ papa want to be our guardian—Burchie’s and 
mine?” She leaned her head back against the blue 
flannel shirt and tried to look at Uncle Hank over her 
forehead. His beard was a good deal in the way. She 
couldn’t see much. 

“Now who in time would ’a’ told you anything about 
that?” He was out of patience—though not with her. 
It encouraged her to proceed. 

“But he did?” 

“I reckon he did, Pettie.” 

“But he can’t—he can’t ever.—could he, Uncle 
Hank?” 

“No!” Hilda loved Uncle Hank’s voice when it 
was full and grave like that; it was so satisfying; it 


74 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


settled things; it gave her little thrills all down her 
spine. He went on. “Your pa left you to me—in a 
manner of speaking. Plenty witnesses. I—” 

“Oh, Uncle Hank, I’m a witness,” a quick rush of 
tears in the black eyes. “I heard him say it, Uncle 
Hank. I heard you promise. It made me—” No use 
to begin that—she never could tell the old man how 
it made her feel toward him. So she finished softly, 
“I’m a witness.” 

“So you would be,” Hank agreed. “But there was 
no need to call on you for that, Pettie. I did name 
it to Miss Valery when she come to me speaking of Lee 
Marchbanks having applied; I told her same as I told 
the judge when I took out my papers. It’s nothing for 
a child like you to pester her little head about.” But 
the mention of Aunt Val brought back all Hilda’s 
bitterness. 

“Well, I think it was mean for a man to want to 
do that—want to be our guardian, I mean—when 
you’re it,” she said. 

“Sho! I wouldn’t talk that-away about some one 
you never seen—nor me either, for that matter. It 
chances I’ve never laid eyes on Colonel Lee March- 
banks; but from what I hear, he’s all right.” 

“Well, he’s Fayte Marchbanks’ papa, and I don’t 
like Fayte a bit. Fayte said the Three Sorrows ranch 
belonged to him—if he had his rights. Is that the 
reason his papa wanted to be our guardian?” 

“Now see here, don’t you fix up a story and fit it 
onto the other feller without by-your-leave. That ain’t 
fair. I expect Lee Marchbanks does wish his first 
wife’s father hadn’t sold the Sorrers out of the family, 
but too much thinkin’ about what the other feller’s 
thinkin’ has made a lot of trouble in this world before 
now. Let it go at what he done . And he done no 


A CHILD’S WORLD 


IS 


more than to ask appointment as guardeen—and I 
guess he had your Aunt Val’s permission for that. You 
couldn’t understand the ins and outs of it now.” 

“Mrs. Capadine said he wanted control of the prop¬ 
erty—what’s control, Uncle Hank? And she said it 
was natural. I don’t think she ought to have said that. 
And they all talked about minor children, the estates 
being wasted before they came of age. Is a ranch an 
estate, Uncle Hank? What’s of age—am I of age?” 

Hank chuckled and shook the thin little shoulder 
softly. “You’ve asked me so many questions I ain’t 
a-goin’ to answer nary one of them,” he said. “Them 
ladies were talking general and wide-flung, Pettie. 
They don’t mean to throw off on your Uncle Hank 
none.” 

But Hilda knew of something that was not general 
and wide-flung, that applied directly to him. 

“What does uncouth, mean, Uncle Hank?” she 
asked. 

“Now, you ask me what I can tell you,” he returned 
genially. “That there was a great word with my 
mother, back in the Tennessee Mountains. When we 
young ’uns rampaged about so far, she’d use it on us. 
If we raced up to the table and commenced filling our 
mouths too full before we got good settled in our 
chairs, she’d tell us not to be uncouth and make us lay 
down knife and fork and set for a spell.” 

“I wish you’d do that way, too, Uncle Hank. You 
just correct me if I’m ever uncouth. I’m sure you 
never are.” 

Hilda thought she was very diplomatic to put it that 
way, but she was a little startled to feel the broad blue- 
flannel chest against which her head leaned lifted by 
a silent chuckle, and to have Uncle Hank echo: 

“Uncouth—t bet your Aunt Valery thinks so—and 


76 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


says so! Why not? Way I talk must sound heathen¬ 
ish to a New York lady.” 

“Well, I like the way you talk,” the little girl held 
to her point. 

“That’s right,” Hank agreed. “You like it—for 
me; don’t you foiler it. You’re to grow up a nice lady, 
and talk dictionary, like your Aunt Valery does. When 
you folks first come here, I tried to brush up a little; 
when your pa left you to me, I shore thought I’d 
straighten up my language; but it couldn’t be did. I’ve 
gave it up. I’ve done gave it up. I’d look a bigger 
fool trying to talk New York fashion than what I do 
using the lingo that I was raised on and learned in six 
weeks of an Old Field Hollerin’ school back in the 
Tennessee mountains. A hollerin’ school?” as Hilda 
looked puzzled. “We-e-ell, some calls it a yelpin’ 
school. It’s a school where all the young ’uns sits on 
benches and hollers their lessons. The school teacher 
—be it man or woman—walks up and down between 
them benches to see that the scholars mind their 
books, and don’t leave off studying; and the feller 
that hollers his lesson loudest is the best scholar—see, 
honey? That’s what it is.” 

“I should think it would make an awful noise, Uncle 
Hank.” 

“It does, that. You can hear one of them yelpin’ 
schools for nigh a mile.” 

“But—I should think you couldn’t learn anything— 
on account of the noise,” the little girl went on. 

“You got to learn,” Hank said. “Teacher cuffs you 
side o’ the head if you don’t. You can get used to most 
any way of doing things, Pettie. I got as far as long 
division, in the cipherin’, and read ’way into the Bible 
—taking all the hard words as they come. Then my 
pa died off, of lung fever,—pneumonia they call it now 


A CHILD’S WORLD 


77 


■—and I had to go home and run the farm for my 
mother. We hadn’t got to grammer yet. Don’t know 
if the teacher knew it himself. So you see that left me 
with just the English language to use, and after I come 
to Texas I picked up the Texas language that a man 
uses workin’ cattle.” 

“Well, you can run a ranch ’most better than any¬ 
body, and Shorty and all the boys say so.” 

“Yes, your Uncle Hank can run a ranch.” 

“Well—you can teach me that—you can teach me 
to run a ranch.” 

“Why, yes. Reckon I can.” 

“Well, I can ride some now, can’t I? And I’m not 
afraid—very bad—any more. I’m going to be lots 
of help to you, Uncle Hank, aren’t I?” 

“Lots of help,” the man repeated softly. 

“When Aunt Val goes to Fort Worth, there’ll be 
just you and me to run the Three Sorrows ranch, 
won’t there? And you’ll teach me all the time—” 

“Outside of school and your books, Pettie. Out¬ 
side of them, we’ll be full pardners. You and me’ll 
run this ranch.” And he swung her down on the door- 
stone. 


CHAPTER VII 

THE NORTHER 

S O Hilda, alone at the ranch with Uncle Hank, Sam 
Kee in the kitchen, the cowboys out in their own 
place, came up to the first Christmas since her 
father’s death. There’d been Christmas cards from 
Aunt Val and Burchie, at the Sanitarium, and some 
talk of their trying to be at the Three Sorrows for the 
week; but in the end Miss Valeria sent a blue silk party 
dress for her niece, and a letter saying she could not 
risk having Burch exposed to changes of weather at 
this time. There was a Miss Wingfield, of Kentucky, 
in the Sanitarium, who played a very fair game of crib- 
bage. She had found some rather good society in Fort 
Worth itself—and so on, and so on. 

Uncle Hank puckered his lips as though he might 
be going to whistle when they unpacked the expensive- 
looking little frock, so utterly unsuited to any of 
Hilda’s uses or needs. And when they came to try it 
on, they found it too tight in some places and too big 
in others. Miss Valeria’s letter said, just as she 
would have said it if she had been there, that, since 
she didn’t have Hilda’s measurements, there might be 
changes to be made, but that a local seamstress could 
probably attend to it. 

“Well,” said Uncle Hank doubtfully, “there’s a 
Mrs. Johnnie DeLisle at Mesquite that’s a cracker- 
jack at sewing—sewing and cutting out things. I 
reckon Miss Valeria would call her a seamstress. She 
ain’t very local—not to us. We’ll have to go sixty 
78 


THE NORTHER 


79 


miles to her. But as we was going in to-morrow— 
weather permitting—to do a—er—a little Christmas 
buying, why we can take it along, and have her fix it.” 

They were to start before sunrise and make the trip 
in one day. He sent Hilda off to bed early; and twice 
before going to bed himself stepped from the front 
door to study the weather. They drove away in the 
buckboard next morning in the dark after a hasty 
breakfast; Hilda had never seen him push the ponies 
so. Neither of them seemed in a humor for talking; 
she was sure Uncle Hank was worried—or anyhow he 
was absent-minded, and Hilda had absorbing affairs of 
her own to think of. She carried in a little pasteboard 
box one carefully saved whole quarter, two silver dimes 
and seven pennies, that were to buy at Brann’s store 
the finest necktie to be had for Uncle Hank’s Christ¬ 
mas present. She couldn’t trust any of the boys to get 
the exact shade of Uncle Hank’s blue eyes. She must 
select it herself. And Uncle Hank had finally agreed 
to take her. 

The air seemed very still. The thud-thud of the 
ponies’ hoofs sounded dull. When it was time for the 
sun to come up, things just got a little lighter; the gray 
began to turn blue. Suddenly Uncle Hank spoke, look¬ 
ing down at her, still pushing his team hard. 

“Better get your other coat out of your war-bag, 
honey.” 

Hilda couldn’t trust the situation to words. She 
drew from under the seat a very small bundle, opened 
it and showed that the largest and heaviest garment 
it contained was a cambric nightgown. 

“Pettie! Is that all you took for a trip like this? 
Where’s the big bundle I saw Sam Kee toting down the 
stairs just before we left? I thought that was your 
coat and things.” She shook her head. 


80 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“I guess that was the washing, Uncle Hank,” she 
faltered. “I guess he was just taking it into the 
kitchen. He said he’d get it done while we were gone, 
don’t you remember?” 

“Mm,” the old man murmured noncommittally. 
“And that’s all you’ve got? And I let you come out 
like that?” 

“Well—it was kind of warm this morning.” Hilda 
defended them both. “And I didn’t think about the 
big coat. I’m not c-cold, now, Uncle Hank—hardly a 
bit,” and she tried not to shiver. 

It was a curious, wild, beautiful day. Up there in 
the north everything was a clear, strange, wicked blue, 
out of which there began now a keen, steady wind. 
Over in the east, to their right, the sun was just a 
blurry pink spot in the heavens. 

“I’d never have come out like this—I’d have seen 
to things myself—if I hadn’t been sort of troubled in 
my mind,” said Uncle Hank. “But that’s no excuse.” 
He looked down at her. “Not cold? Why, Uncle 
Hank’s baby’s just about perished! We’ve got a blue 
norther—just as I was afraid—and it’ll blow for three 
days. If you had your coat, I’d turn ,round and go 
straight back home. But you can’t travel in that little 
jacket in a norther. I’ll cut in here to the left; see—” 
as he turned into a side trail— “it puts our backs to 
the wind. We’ll stop at the Bar Thirteen; you remem¬ 
ber, honey, the Reynolds and MacQueen ranch. Frosty 
MacQueen, he’s that staving big feller with the tow- 
colored hair. You seen him at the last roundup on 
our place—” He checked suddenly. 

Hilda shook her head. She didn’t remember any 
one at that roundup which ended so tragically. Hank 
glanced sideways at her, and went on in a cheerful, 
commonplace tone: 


THE NORTHER 


81 


“He’s sort of a joker—Frosty is. Calls hisself 
‘Frosty MacQueen 
Of the Bar Thirteen.’ ” 

“Oh!” Hilda’s big eyes danced. “That rimes— 
doesn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Uncle Hank agreed. “And if any one takes 
notice of it riming that-a-way, Frosty’ll say, ‘I was a 
poet—and didn’t know it.’ He aims to be funny.” 

Hilda’s mother had always read poetry to her; she 
knew a great deal of it by heart, and used to love to 
go about sort of saying it under her breath, or even 
with closed lips letting it say itself in her head. Since 
she’d come to Texas and planned to grow up and be 
Uncle Hank’s partner and a ranchwoman, she some¬ 
times wondered if she ought to do this. And too, out 
here the plains, the sky, the movements on these two 
of the morning and evening which made day and night, 
also set her to stringing words together. Sometimes 
these rimed, and then it would give her a thrill that 
was almost painful. There was nobody to tell about 
it. Aunt Val, even when she was there, would only 
have told her to run away and not interrupt when a 
person was reading, and Burchie was too little. So it 
had made itself into a secret; and when a thing does 
that it pretty soon gets to be seeming like something 
wrong. Now, here was this Frosty MacQueen, a 
grown man, owner of a ranch, and it seemed he was 
allowed to make rimes without loss of social stand¬ 
ing. She plucked up sudden courage and asked: 

“Uncle Hank—did you know I could write poetry?” 

“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you could.” The old 
man was busy with his team, getting over a bit of a 
gully. She watched close to see whether he was pleased 
or displeased with her statement, but could make noth¬ 
ing of him. As he seemed not to be going any further 


82 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


with the subject, she was obliged to take it up again 
herself, an effort that gave a little too much force to 
her statement: 

“But I won’t—if you’d rather I wouldn’t.” 

“Wouldn’t what?” They were going smoothly now 
without further attention, as she went on: 

“I love it, in the books, too; and maybe—at nights, 
and times when you’re resting—but you know I intend 
to learn to ride and—and grow up to be a real ranch- 
woman and your right hand. Do you think I could do 
that and write poetry too?” 

“Sure, Pettie. Why not? Lots o’ good riders and 
such write poetry. I’ve knowed boys that sung it to 
the cattle, riding night herd. You go ahead; if you 
grow up along of me, you’re bound to grow up a 
rancher; that’s all there is to be, around here. I 
couldn’t help you none in the poetry business; but you 
can read me any of your little pieces that you’ve wrote, 
any time you want to. I expect they’re fine.” 

“Oh, Uncle Hank, I will!” in a flutter of embarrass¬ 
ment and delight. “But I haven’t got any very good 
ones—yet. If you don’t think it’s foolish—I will write 
a nice one out for you.” 

Pearsall was looking keenly ahead. 

“Like as not neither of the boys at home,” he said. 
“But Frosty’s been pesterin’ me to bring you along 
some time to see his white cat, Lily. He’s plumb fool¬ 
ish about Lily; says she’s all the family he’s got, that 
she has more sense than some humans. Lily’ll be at 
home, anyhow.” 

“I’m almost glad the norther come,” Hilda mur¬ 
mured. 

Hank drove on a moment in silence, then he said: 

“Pettie, I ain’t sure and certain of myself in this 
here grammer range; but from what I can make out 


THE NORTHER 


83 


from the brands and ear-marks, that there word ought 
to be ‘came’—not ‘come.* ” 

The child looked at him wide-eyed with amazement. 
“Why, Uncle Hank, you—you say—” she faltered. 

“Yes, Pettie, yes, honey—you’ve got me there,” 
slowly shaking his head. “You see an old cowpuncher 
like me—never had no schooling to speak of—I sure 
do say a sight of unproper words. That’s one place 
where it ain’t a-going to do for you to follow your 
Uncle Hank—Pettie, I can’t lead. Cattle ranching— 
that’s one thing I know, forward or backward; but 
that there grammer trail’s a plumb blind one to me. 
You’ll have to quit me there, and learn one of your 
own. I’ll always try to provide the right party to scout 
it out and blaze it for you. Never mind my flinging 
my rope at ‘come’ and ‘came’ and such. Ask Miss 
Belle about ’em when you go back to school after 
Christmas. She knows. That’s what she’s here for. 
And when you get so you can ride with the grammer 
pretty stiddy, why I’ll just tail on the best I can. 
That’s how you and me’ll work it, Pettie—that’s the 
way we’ll operate this here proposition.” 

With his free hand he reached over and pulled the 
blankets up around the child, exclaiming: 

“I thought so! Here she comes.” 

And with the ponies at a long steady lope they drove 
the last quarter mile to the door of the little Bar 
Thirteen shack in an ever-thickening cloud of snow 
that came steadily out of the north on that strong 
wind. 

“Ain’t no smoke,” muttered Hank, peering at the 
shanty through whirling flakes. “Hop out, Pettie! 
Hop out, honey, and skalarrup right into the house, 
while I put the ponies up. Jest make yourself to home 
till I get there.” 


84 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


When, a few moments later, the old man came into 
the small front room, after stamping the snow from 
his high boots, he found the child standing forlornly 
in the middle of it. 

“They’ve likely went to town for Christmas,” he 
said. “But that don’t make no difference to us; we’ll 
mighty soon have things humming here.” 

He hung up his big white cowboy hat, hustled off 
Hilda’s snow-soaked outer garments, and came back 
from a foraging expedition with a small blanket, in 
which he wrapped her, tucking her into a comfortable 
chair. 

“Now you’re done up like a papoose,” he laughed. 
“Can’t move none in that there serape. You just set 
and watch your Uncle Hank while he shows you how 
folks make theirselves to home in Texas when they 
come to see you—and you ain’t there.” 

Soon fires were roaring gayly in both the kitchen and 
front-room stoves, a can of tomatoes was opened, a 
can of corn beside it; the odor of brewing coffee 
floated pleasantly through the house; condensed milk, 
butter,—all that goes to make a cozy meal was 
brought out. A lamp was lit—as the darkness thick¬ 
ened—the table spread, and they ate their supper. 

Hilda could not get the great white cat to stay with 
her. Lily came in and welcomed them sedately; then, 
in spite of all Hilda’s petting, offering of diluted con¬ 
densed milk and other dainties, she walked away with 
the air of a hostess who feels her duty complete. 

“Leave her go,” said Uncle Hank easily. “You 
can gentle her to-morrow. We’ll be right here for 
three days.” 

“I keep on being almost glad,” Hilda said. “It’s 
like a desert island—sort of. And the plain out there 
is the sea. If it had happened on the way back, and 


THE NORTHER 85 

I’d had—er—something Twanted to get in Mesquite, 
I think Christmas here would be lots of fun.” 

“Ye-ah. So do I, Pettie.” The old man spoke ab¬ 
sently from a small wall cupboard, where he was push¬ 
ing aside a home-made checkerboard with buttons for 
checkers, several incomplete and very dirty packs of 
cards, that had made many a solitaire in long lone¬ 
some evenings, and Frosty’s extra supply of tobacco. 
“If I had—” His voice trailed off. His plans had 
not been so exact as Hilda’s, but he had expected to 
fill a small stocking to overflowing with what he could 
buy at Brann’s store; and now there was nothing to 
“do with,” as he himself would have put it, but what¬ 
ever he could find in or about the Bar Thirteen shack. 
He sighed a little, then turned with a smile to drop 
another stick of mesquite wood into the little air-tight 
stove. He surveyed the bright, warm room, while out¬ 
side the norther had its own way on the naked plain. 
“Comfortable! Why, we’re just a-suffering with com¬ 
fort, you and me—ain’t we, honey?” 


CHAPTER VIII 


A CHRISTMAS VALENTINE 
HAT night Hilda slept soundly in big Frosty 



MacQueen’s bed. And all through the dark 


hours snow came down on that long slant from 
the north, so that it coated that side of the house. It 
froze, thawed a little, and froze again; morning found 
a sparkling glare, almost like thin ice, all over the 
snowy crust on which the flakes had ceased to fall. 
The sun was shining; it was very beautiful, but bitter 
cold—not the kind of day to go out in. Like a great 
knife the wind raked the gleaming levels; it played 
with the dust of dry snow; it tried at the doors and 
windows of the shack, rattling them loudly. It made 
what was inside them seem all the more secure and 
cheerful by contrast. 

A curious preoccupation had taken hold of these 
two castaways. They wandered about the house, and 
didn’t look at each other. Hilda’s coins burned in her 
pocket. Uncle Hank seemed to be vaguely looking 
for something. 

“From his gal, I reckon,” was the comment brought 
out by a small bonbon box full of much-read letters. 
“No, they ain’t likely to be a thing on the place that 
Pettie would care for.” But anyhow he could cook. 
And so, soon after the noon meal, he barricaded him¬ 
self in the kitchen, telling Hilda to occupy herself with 
such amusements as could be found in the parlor— 
“like a lady.” She agreed, promptly and without com¬ 
ment. She had important plans of her own afoot. It 


86 


A CHRISTMAS VALENTINE 


87 


never occurred to her that she could take the liberty 
of presenting her Uncle Hank with anything that be¬ 
longed to Frosty MacQueen. She dived instantly and 
eagerly into her own inner consciousness and personal 
belongings. The small bundle was unrolled and looked 
over. 

The desperate plan of slashing right into one of the 
breadths of that blue silk dress to make a necktie for 
Uncle Hank wasn’t given up because Hilda would 
have grudged the sacrifice, only for lack of proper 
needles and thread. Frosty had a “housewife,” but the 
needle-book in it contained nothing but darners, some 
wicked three-cornered affairs for sewing leather—Hilda 
cut a finger on one of them and respectfully let them 
alone after that—and one short, fat needle almost as 
big as a darner. As for thread, there was some num¬ 
ber eight, black, and some number thirty, white, and a 
mass of darning cotton. Did all Frosty’s sewing con¬ 
sist of darning and sewing on buttons? It looked like 
it. The cambric of her nightgown would have fur¬ 
nished pocket-handkerchiefs—of a sort—but again, 
she couldn’t hem handkerchiefs without fine thread and 
needle. Beyond this was a tooth-brush, a comb, an 
extra hair ribbon of faded complexion, and a little red 
Russian-leather note-book with her father’s name upon 
it. 

This last brought the happy inspiration. She would 
write Uncle Hank a Christmas valentine—the combi¬ 
nation was her own invention. Since the spirit of the 
gift must be all, she would freight it with that love 
which sometimes seemed to swell almost too big for 
her heart to hold, and hint delicately at something 
more material that would come later, when she could 
get in to Mesquite. 

The last words of this composition were labored 


88 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


out in the dusk, and Hilda rose with a start to light 
her lamp and finish her preparations. There was no 
sound from the kitchen, but a most delicious odor 
oozed through a crack of the door. “Stay there, Pet- 
tie !” sounded Uncle Hank’s voice as she took the first 
step toward his part of the house. “I put you a lamp 
and matches on the table before I quit ye this after¬ 
noon. Is your fire all right? Are you—er—are you 
a-having a good time, honey?” solicitously. “I’ll open 
the door pretty soon.” 

“No—don’t! I can light the lamp myself, Uncle 
Hank. Yes—oh, yes, I’m having a fine time. I’m 
busy—don’t open the door.” 

A satisfied chuckle from behind the panels reached 
the child as she went back to the little stand and her 
Christmas valentine. She had carried her work to the 
window to have the last faint daylight upon it. Now, 
as she approached the pane, lamp in hand, two great 
eyes like balls of fire glared in at her from the snowy 
outside. She had just presence of mind to thrust her 
papers into the stand drawer as she turned back, cry¬ 
ing out for Uncle Hank—for, beyond the first pair of 
fiery eyeballs, she had made out shadowy forms and 
yet more and more burning eyes! 

The old man threw the door open with a bang, let¬ 
ting in a whiff of aromatic sweetness, and she plunged 
at him, clutching his shoulders with her little brown 
hands, hiding her face against his rough flannel shirt. 

“Oh! Uncle Hank—the eyes-—the eyes—glaring 
at me!” she cried. 

“What!” his tone was hearty as he good humor- 
edly shook her a little. “Not whiffenpoofs again—■ 
right here with Uncle Hank—and a good light and 
all?” 


A CHRISTMAS VALENTINE 89 

“Oh, no, no! Like panthers or—or wolves. You 
look—out the window, there.” 

Hank glanced across the shivering little figure 
crouching in his arms to the window, and at once un¬ 
derstood. The cheerful shine from the small ranch- 
house windows, sending messages of comfort out over 
the snow-covered levels, had attracted the unhappy cat¬ 
tle, whose only food—the short, rich plains grass— 
was covered deep in snow. It was their eyeballs which 
glared so. 

“It’s just poor, hungrey cows, honey. The lamp¬ 
light makes their eyes shine that-a-way. They’ve went 
without supper-—and without breakfast and dinner, 
too, I reckon. A winter in this here cattle country is 
sure a-going to wring a man’s heart, if he’s got any.” 

“Oh,” said Hilda. She ran to the window now and 
looked out at the ring of glaring eyes. She caught her 
breath. “Uncle Hank—it’s Christmas,” she said piti¬ 
fully, and gazed up into his face, pulling at his hand. 

“I know, honey—I know,” he said, soothingly. 
“But these here Bar Thirteen folks out there hain’t 
hung up no stockings—and we ain’t Sandy Claus. Wish 
we had a stack of hay for ’em—though like enough the 
drinking tank is froze over, and they’re more thirsty 
than hungry.” 

“Oh, Uncle Hank,” Hilda pleaded, “do be Santa 
Claus, and I’ll be Kris Kringle. Let’s go out and rake 
the snow off that little haystack by the corral and let 
the bars down! Do let’s give the cows a Christmas 
tree!” 

There was a fizz of something “boiling over,” and 
a sudden blast of steam that smelled heavenly from the 
kitchen. Hank hurried to quiet matters. A moment 
later Hilda heard him stamping into his tall boots. 


90 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“All right!” he called. “I’ll see what I can do for 
them Bar Thirteens.” 

“But me too—me too, Uncle Hank!” insisted Hilda, 
running after him. “If I’m going to be a ranchwoman 
I’ll have to know what to do about northers—and 
—everything.” Her hand was on the knob of the door 
between living-room and kitchen, when Uncle Hank’s 
voice stopped her. 

“Stay there! Whoop! Hi—hi—hi—don’t come 
no further, honey girl! I’ll be with ye in a minute! 
Yes, you can go if I can wrap you up sufficient.” 

Hilda backed, coughing with excited laughter, from 
the communicating door. And a few minutes later 
there followed the old man across the snow in the 
moonlight a queer figure—a little girl with a pair of 
Frosty MacQueen’s heavy woolen socks pulled on over 
her shoes and stockings, a man’s corduroy coat reach¬ 
ing to her skirt edge, its sleeves hanging six or eight 
inches below her little paws like the sleeves of ancient 
Russian boyars, a woolen comforter tied over head and 
neck, a hoe grasped valiantly in one hand, and a long 
string of pathetically hopeful Bar Thirteen cows trail¬ 
ing after. 

The snow was raked from the small stack of coarse 
Laguna hay; but the old cattleman had been right, the 
cows were too thirsty to eat. They nosed it and turned 
away, muttering, to mumble at the snow. Uncle Hank 
knew in the stillness, and without any light, that Hil¬ 
da’s big black eyes were filling, and she was struggling 
with sobs. 

“All right,” he spoke out cheerily, shouldering his 
axe; “now we’ll get a right good drink for ’em; an’ it’s 
turning off so warm that the tank ain’t likely to freeze 
again this trip.” 

With a queer sound that might have been a cough, 


A CHRISTMAS VALENTINE 


91 


a sob, or a chuckle, the child grasped his hand, and 
together they hurried around the tank, where the old 
man, addressing himself vigorously to the task, soon 
had the thick ice which covered it broken up until only 
one great cake rode in the middle. Then he set Hilda 
—who was laughing joyously as she looked on and 
applauded—across the tank from him, provided with 
a long pole to push the big ice-cake toward him, and 
smashed it also. The poor thirsty cattle, who had 
followed trustingly close at their heels, crowded up to 
drink; and when Santa Claus and Kris Kringle reached 
the ranch-house door they could look back and see the 
happy Bar Thirteens clustered around their Christmas 
tree, “taking off the presents,” as Hilda said. “And, 
oh, Uncle Hank,” squeezing his hand hard between 
her two little ones, “isn’t it—just—beautiful!” 

Supper found the little kitchen bare of any object 
suspicious to the eye (even the eye very, very big, very 
black, and preposterously keen, of eight years old), 
but in the air still hung a noble aroma, and Lily, the 
white cat, paced up and down, mewing now and then, 
rubbing against old Hank’s legs, and stopping to sniff 
most indelicately at the pantry door. 

Hilda giggled—or would it be more exact to say 
that a giggle rippled its way from the little girl’s 
abashed and apologetic throat—when the old man 
spoke reproachfully: 

“You, Lily! I’m plumb outdone with you. Don’t 
I tell you they ain’t no mice in there—leastways none 
that you could ketch?” 

The meal went off amid a sort of eccentric joviality, 
which was liable to blossom into open hilarity with 
no particular cause apparent; indeed, joy bubbled so 
hard that there seemed perpetual danger of a whole¬ 
sale eruption. 


92 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“ ’Spect you better go to bed right soon,” the old 
man cautioned. “And don’t forget to hang up a good 
long stocking.” 

“Why, Uncle Hank, do you believe Santa Claus can 
get down a stove pipe?” gurgled Hilda in an ecstasy 
of delight. 

“Sure!” replied the old man gravely, but with twin¬ 
kling eye. “He knows many a way to get in where the 
stocking is—that draws him, as you might say.” 

Together they unearthed from big Frosty Mac- 
Queen’s kit an amazing and Brobdingnagian pair of 
golf hose. “These was sure made for this business,” 
murmured Hank in chuckling enjoyment, as he gazed 
upon them. He helped the little girl fasten one of 
the great, gayly plaided things to the wall behind the 
stove, all the time muttering delighted comments 
upon their size and the cheerfulness of their color 
scheme. 

“Well, now, you hang up the other one for your 
own self,” suddenly urged Hilda, though she looked a 
little doubtfully at its capaciousness. 

“Huh?” exclaimed the old man, facing around upon 
her. “Don’t you reckon Sandy Claus would get sort 
of mixed up by me being at the Bar Thirteen, when I 
ought, speaking proper and by the book to be at 
Mesquite—or to home at the Three Sorrers ranch 
house?” 

Hilda shook her head. “He won’t get mixed up 
about you any more than he will about me,” she argued, 
with lips that tried hard not to break into laughter. 

“Well—now!” he murmured, pinning up the second 
stocking beside the first. “I—er—mm—” He trailed 
off into silence; but it could not last long. Something 
must say itself. “I take that mighty kind in Sandy 
Claus,” thumping his thumb briskly and never knowing 


A CHRISTMAS VALENTINE 


93 


it. “It’s right gentlemanly of him to spend the whole 
day fixing for—ouch!” suddenly realizing the pounded 
thumb—“I mean, you know, for him to go a-loping 
all over the Texas Panhandle hunting for me. If 
Sandy Claus wasn’t most generally understood to be 
a man—a little old fat man—I’d say it was plumb 
sweet of him.” 

Well, well! Then to bed! It had been a busy day. 
The sharp tussle with the cows’ Christmas tree in the 
frosty air had left the little girl ready for deep, dream¬ 
less sleep, and it seemed but a moment after she had 
shut her eyes, when she heard Uncle Hank calling 
from the kitchen: 

“Better get up and ’tend to that stocking, or it might 
take legs and walk away!” 

She was out of bed with one bound. There was a 
good fire; and behind the roaring stove hung a stock¬ 
ing that bulged and—yes, and twitched! As she 
looked, a small three-cornered white ear, pink-lined 
and furry, came in view above the hem. Its mate 
followed; and then two round bright eyes with an ut¬ 
terly adorable slant, as a sleepy white kitten looked out 
and yawned at her. 

She slipped into her dress, then cried: “It’s alive! 
It’s a kitten—a real, live, human kitten! Oh, come 
and see it, Uncle Hank!” 

Thus invited, the old man gently pushed open the 
kitchen door and sat down upon its step to share her 
happiness. 

“Oh, it’s like a swan’s-down kitten—so white! Did 
it snow down, Uncle Hank? Oh, isn’t it lovely and 
dear?” 

“Why, Sandy Claus brought him,” corrected the old 
man. Then, coming down to plain facts, he added, re¬ 
assuringly, “Frosty said you could have your pick. 


94 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


There’s two others; one is a sorrel and one a pinto. I 
judged you’d like this one the best.” 

The kitten, as though it thought poorly of these rev¬ 
elations, gave a tiny sneezelike “Whszt!” which set 
Hilda to laughing, and at this the gay little atom, pre¬ 
tending to be angry, backed off and, like a boxer, began 
to make passes at the corner of her coat. 

“He’s a high-spirited kitten, all right,” commented 
Uncle Hank, watching them with a smile. “But there’s 
more live stock in that stocking—leastways more things 
with legs.” 

Gently Hilda pulled the stocking from its nail, put 
in a cautious hand and began drawing out fat ginger¬ 
bread animals. 

“Oh—a pony!” she cried. “And the gingerbread is 
just the color of Shorty’s Gold-dust sorrel!” 

“It’s just as well Shorty can’t hear you—and see that 
thing,” chuckled Uncle Hank. “I take no pride in that 
nag. He was a tricky, deceivin’ critter, Pettie; looked 
well enough in the dough, but, come to bake him, he 
sort of drawed up in the legs like he was spavined.” 

“Oh, but this dear little jack-rabbit!” Hilda went 
on with her investigations. 

The old man watched her a moment silently; then, 
as she made no correction of her statement, “That 
there was aimed for a burro,” he said mildly. “You 
can’t always go by the long ears. Look at the pack 
on his back.” 

“Oh, yes—the pack!” cried Hilda eagerly. “Why, 
of course!” She had taken the pack for the hump of a 
rabbit! 

There were now hauled out of the great stocking, 
one after another, a coyote, whose color helped along 
the illusion, and whom Hilda, grown more cautious, 
did not call anything till she had artfully induced Uncle 


A CHRISTMAS VALENTINE 


95 


Hank to classify him; a cow, which Uncle Hank will¬ 
ingly, even a bit hastily, named, adding in an apolo¬ 
getic tone, “Them horns—no, them there—them’s its 
horns—swelled something ridiculous in the baking!” 
Then there was really a jack-rabbit (about the cow’s 
own size, and much resembling her), some mice, and 
a flock of fat little yellow ducks, made by knotting a 
string of dough, flattening one end for the tail, and 
bunching the other for the head. These looked so 
good that Hilda suddenly became conscious of her lack 
of breakfast. Down in the toe of the stocking was a 
small jar filled with that which had yesterday spread 
such maddening odors abroad and had fizzled and 
boiled over—a most marvelous, a truly heavenly soft 
taffy, all juicy and moist with chopped prunes. 

“Oh,” she said, concluding her investigations with 
a sigh of rapture, “you’ve made me a lovelier Christ¬ 
mas than as if we had got in to Mesquite. Now, Uncle 
Hank, look in yours.” 

“Reckon I better?” he debated, glancing doubtfully 
at the lank stocking. “Sometimes Sandy Claus gets 
stalled in the snow, and you don’t get your gift till 
some days after Christmas. I’ve knowed it to happen 
in the Tennessee mountains, and I ain’t going to hold 
it against him if that’s the case this time.” 

“But it isn’t—it isn’t!” cried Hilda, with very bright 
eyes. 

The enterprising kitten ran up Hilda’s chair at a 
rush, tumbled into her lap and began nibbling at a gin¬ 
gerbread duck. Uncle Hank crossed the floor in two 
big strides and thrust his hand deep into the swinging 
stocking. He drew out the small red book. As he 
stood and looked down at the name upon it, his tanned 
weather-beaten face softened beautifully. 

“Charley’s book, God bless him—poor boy!” he 


96 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


said, hardly above his breath. He looked at her, not 
seeing her, his gaze—full of pitying love—fixed on 
things a short way back on Hilda’s and his own life 
trail. “The little book Charley always packed. Char¬ 
ley’s baby was bound to see that Uncle Hank was 
remembered.” He turned it in gentle fingers. Against 
one inside cover was a pocket, and in it lay a length 
of tinsel ribbon, such as comes about bolts of muslin; 
a baby picture of Hilda’s self, a bit of Charley’s dark, 
curling hair, a pressed flower—treasures of a lonely 
child—and with them a folded paper. 

“Open it!” Hilda couldn’t restrain herself. “It’s 
just a valentine—a Christmas valentine—Uncle Hank; 
but I want you to keep the book, and—and you said I 
could be a ranchwoman—and write poetry at nights 
and while I’m resting.” 

She had worked with her own red-and-blue pencil 
and Frosty McQueen’s violet ink to put a vine around 
the page by way of border. The blossoms of this stem 
were botanically erratic, but they would commend 
themselves to Uncle Hank’s partial eyes. A red bird 
plumed itself in the upper right-hand corner of the 
sheet, supported by a blue fowl on the left. The lit¬ 
tle girl had written in her large, clear, childish hand 
between: 


My Uncle Hank 
I wish to thank 
For all he teaches me. 
To ride and rope 
And soon I hope 
A ranchwoman to be. 

The “Sorrows” fair, 
Shall be our care, 


A CHRISTMAS VALENTINE 


97 


Where we shall tend the kine. 

There through the years 
Of hopes and fears 
I’ll be your valentine. 

“Kine are cattle—in poetry—you know, Uncle 
Hank,” she explained hastily, as she saw he had fin¬ 
ished the verses. “And I put in a note to tell why I 
had to give it to you now, instead of on Valentine day.” 

He turned the sheet and found: 

“To My Dear Uncle Hank: 

“This is a Valentine only it is Christmas you know and I 
have nothing to give you but my love because the Necktie is at 
Mesquite and it Snows. But you will understand and I can 
get it then. 

“Your loving little girl, 

“Hildegarde Rensselaer Van Brunt.” 

With misty eyes, the old man was reading: “Nothing 
to give you but love . . . but you will under¬ 
stand ...” He folded the sheet together, and 
bent to kiss the upraised childish face. 

“Nothin’ but love—why, Pettie, that’s a gift to fill 
the whole—wide—world I” 


CHAPTER IX 


STOCKINGS AND SHOES 

S PRING came along while Aunt Val and Burchie 
were in Fort Worth. 

Think of it—think of being away when that 
happened! Hilda wouldn’t have missed it for any¬ 
thing. For she knew that this country of the Staked 
Plain played a yearly prank. Throughout the long, 
dry summer it hid beneath the soft green-brown that 
clothes its mighty levels, dreaming delicate mist of 
dream, that showed to mortal eyes as mirage. In 
winter, it lay under the great reaches of snow. But 
on some magically determined day in spring, when you 
were not thinking of anything in particular, it suddenly 
burst out upon you and shouted, “Booh!” 

“Booh!” cried the Texas plains of Lame Jones 
County (a place supposed by the foolishly learned to 
be a dry, windswept, featureless waste, almost desert) 
in a great voice that had no sound, and seemed to 
come from everywhere at once. And you looked 
about and said, “Why, you almost scared me!” You 
looked a long time and then you said, “How beau¬ 
tiful you are—oh, how beautiful! Where have you 
been all year?” “Right here!” laughed the Texas 
plain. Its laugh was green, oh, green with pure joy, 
radiant with incredible stretches of blue and rose and 
gold—wild hollyhocks, cactus blooms, phlox—nod¬ 
ding, dancing in the April breeze. 

Hilda was getting along without any knowledge of 
cities, except the London or New York of romance, 
or the Bagdad that came into a fairy tale. She’d 
98 


STOCKINGS AND SHOES 


99 


never even been to Mesquite, for she and Uncle Hank 
turned back from the Bar Thirteen after that Christ¬ 
mas blizzard, and the old man found plenty of work 
on the Sorrows to keep him there. But who would 
ask for more? Her world was bounded by the great 
pastures that stretched out and away to the horizon; 
the foreground of existence was made up of the daily 
small happenings at school or around headquarters, 
as the low, rambling stone house was called. Visitors 
here were few and far between; the people of her 
home world were Sam Kee in the kitchen, the cow- 
punchers over at the bunk house, with Shorty 
O’Meara, Buster, Missou’ and Old Snake Thompson 
for prominent citizens and Uncle Hank for kindly 
ruler. 

Sam Kee let her mix up things sometimes in his big 
clean kitchen. She propped Rose Marie beside her in 
a chair and read to the doll; or she drifted about the 
house murmuring verses or speeches from her favorite 
stories. Oh, she was happy at the ranch, with Uncle 
Hank—she sometimes felt guilty that she didn’t miss 
Aunt Val, or Burchie—or even her father—at all. 
Her mother’s memory was getting to be a dim thing, 
like a beautiful sweet dream that you tried to call 
back in the morning—and couldn’t. 

When Uncle Hank shook his head a little once or 
twice and said he was afraid she was sort of running 
wild, she knew what he meant, but she didn’t tell him. 
It was her “personal appearance,” as Miss Belle had 
called it when she spoke to her on the matter. The 
truth is, it was getting harder and harder for Hilda 
to make herself neat for school. She looked at the 
great acres of hollyhock, phlox and daisies and wished 
that a little girl could just grow dresses as they did. 
There had been a big supply of clothing provided by 


100 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


her mother: so many linens, such a number of ging¬ 
hams, and the heavier frocks in proportion. In Aunt 
Val’s time Hilda just picked out whatever she thought 
she’d like to wear and put it on. There was never 
any trouble about it then, only sometimes if she went 
down stairs in the morning wearing a little lace frock 
with ribbons and the open-work stockings and slippers 
that belonged to it, Aunt Val would send her back to 
her room again to put on something “more suitable.” 
But now, even Aunt Val was gone, and pretty much 
everything that had traveled to Texas in the big trunk 
was worn out, soiled, torn or getting too small for 
her. 

She was growing to be a tall girl—“leggy” Shorty 
said, and Uncle Hank shook his head at him for the 
word. But there couldn’t be any doubt about it—her 
legs were getting longer. Sam Kee said the same 
thing when she complained that he must have shrunk 
the skirts of her dresses in the wash. 

“No! No slink in wash.” He looked at her 
severely out of his slant black eyes. “Skirt no slunk. 
You stletch. You legs stletch fas’ now.” 

“Well; I can’t help it.” Hilda had been on the 
point of tears. 

“No wanchee help.” The Chinaman grinned ami¬ 
ably. “Mebbe pu’ soon be big leddy. Heh! Sam 
Kee feed you plenty good glub—thass why. You tell 
Uncle Hankie. He buy you dress plenty big.” 

Hilda sighed, and looked enviously at Captain 
Snow, the white kitten, a fine half-grown cat now, in 
high favor with Sam Kee, who said that “pu’ soon 
now he ketchy lat.” Captain Snow’s coat grew right 
along with him, and was laundered where it was, in 
calm leisure moments. How much better! 

Upstairs, strewed about on the chairs and tables of 


STOCKINGS AND SHOES 


101 


a disused bedroom, were the discarded fineries Miss 
Val had left—splendid to play princess in; but they 
didn’t offer anything for a decent “personal appear¬ 
ance” at school. And the matter of stockings and 
shoes absolutely stumped Hilda. You couldn’t pin 
them together, or let them out. You just couldn’t 
make feet that had got too large go into shoes that 
stayed the same size. Finally, in desperation, she 
brought out a pair of French-heeled, beaded slippers 
of black satin that had pinched even Miss Val’s small 
foot, and were therefore thrown aside little worn. 
These could be held on with a string tied around the 
instep and ankle. And a pile of Miss Valeria’s worn- 
out silk hose began to furnish the stockings. Hilda 
made this do for school; at home she took to going 
barefoot. 

She did not follow Sam Kee’s suggestion that Uncle 
Hank be bothered with any of these troubles. Aunt 
Val and Burchie there in Fort Worth were costing 
him an awful lot of money. There were mortgages. 
Hilda didn’t know what a mortgage was, but when 
she asked Shorty he said it was something that ate 
money and spit fire. Hilda understood this to be more 
or less figurative. But anyhow, if Uncle Hank had 
mortgages to deal with, she wouldn’t add the worry 
of her clothes. Besides, she was getting along pretty 
well now that it was warm weather. She did just love 
to go barefoot. 

So she was barefoot when she ran, one hot Satur¬ 
day afternoon, down the long box elder avenue, and 
turned eastward, going after some milkweed pods she 
had seen the day before growing in a place where the 
trail came in from* the Ojo Bravo. She was playing 
Persian Princess, and needed some of the lovely 
silvery-white pompoms that could be made from these 


102 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


pods. It was a good way off where the weeds grew, 
but she didn’t stop to get her pony. Maybe one of 
the boys, or even Uncle Hank, would be coming in— 
it was getting toward supper time—and give her a 
ride home behind him. 

And sure enough, as she came within sight of the 
milkweeds, there was Uncle Hank on Buckskin, loping 
in from Ojo Bravo way. She left the trail and made 
for the weeds, running faster now, to get the pods 
and be ready by the time he came up with her. She 
was just reaching out to pick them—they had to be 
taken off carefully, or they would open out and all 
blow away like dandelion balls—when Uncle Hank’s 
big voice roared out at her, from where he had pulled 
up Buckskin: 

“Stop!” 

Hilda stopped, fairly frozen. Never had Uncle 
Hank spoken to her like that before. She stood there 
like a well-trained pointer dog, rigid in the attitude 
of running. 

“Stand. Don’t mpve—for your life. I’m a-going 
to shoot!” 

A hideous moment, then a noise that seemed to 
Hilda to split the sky, and send the earth reeling. 
Uncle Hank leaped from his pony and was running 
toward her. He had her now. She was lying back 
over his left arm, while the pistol in his right hand 
cracked again. 

“Uncle Hank’s baby! Did he scare her most to 
death? You ain’t hurt, Pettie. Look. See what it 
was I killed.” 

She opened unwilling eyes, first at the clouds that 
still ran circles above her in the blue sky; then she 
saw Uncle Hank’s eyes, almost as blue, and full of 
the same fathomless kindness. 


STOCKINGS AND SHOES 103 

“Over there by the milkweed you was goin’ for— 
look, Pettie.” 

And now she held herself erect a moment, and saw 
the brown, rusty coil, the shattered diamond-shaped 
head, of the rattlesnake Uncle Hank had shot. She 
hid her face against the blue flannel sleeve and trem¬ 
bled. 

It was afterward—after he’d gone over to make 
sure the snake was dead—when she could get her 
breath easily again, and was climbing up on Buckskin 
with him, that the old man, looking down at the little 
foot set on his boot-toe, whispered: 

“Barefoot!” 

They rode a moment in tremulous silence, then he 
said sternly, “Never let that happen again, Pettie. 
You wear your shoes.” 

“I love to go barefoot.” 

“Pettie,” he turned and looked at her, “I don’t like 
that. Your pa’s daughter ought to be brought up a 
lady. She ain’t got no place in the barefoot brigade. 
You mind what I say about the shoes. Keep ’em on.” 

“All day? In the house?” 

“D’ruther you would,” and he swung her down at 
the ranch house door. 

No more was said of the matter. But at supper 
time, it was with the feeling of a martyr that Hilda 
came creeping down stairs stockinged and shod— 
after a fashion. She paraded around in front of 
Uncle Hank while they waited for the meal, but he 
paid no attention other than to remark cheerfully 
that he had two men’s work to do to-morrow—if it 
was Sunday—and didn’t she want to take one of them 
off his hands. Sitting at table during the meal, Hilda 
had no chance to give Uncle Hank an object lesson in 
the superiority of bare feet over ill-fitting shoes. If 


104 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


he got away from her and off to bed, she’d not have 
a chance till next day. 

“Anybody seen that left glove of mine?” he asked, 
when he finally pushed back from the table. “I had 
it in here to mend, and I reckon Sam Kee must a-put 
it away for me where I can’t find it. Run ask him, 
Pettie.” 

Hilda ran. As she came ostentatiously hobbling 
back, the glove in her hand, Hank failed to take it. 
Thank goodness, at last he was looking at her feet. 

“What you got on, child?” 

“Shoes—like you told me to,” said Hilda, sadly. 
“Or slippers, rather.” 

“Slippers?” He eyed with disfavor the shabby 
glories of Miss Valeria’s cast-off footwear, the tooth¬ 
pick toes, the preposterous heels. “Slippers, heh? 
Well, you just go and pull ’em off—and don’t you 
ever put ’em on again.” 

“Oh, may I, Uncle Hank? I wanted to ask you if 
I could—in the house. But I thought after I prom¬ 
ised—” 

She was half way to the door when he called after 
her: “You take them things off and put some sensible 
shoes on.” 

She turned, and said in a weak voice: 

“These are all I’ve got, Uncle Hank.” 

“All you’ve got?” He picked her up and carried 
her to the lamplight as though she’d been a doll, 
examining the footgear. “Who in time would buy 
shoes like that for a child?” 

“They weren’t bought for me,” Hilda had to admit. 
“They’re some old ones of Aunt Val’s.” 

“Why don’t you wear your own?” 

“My own are all worn out—and—and I can’t get 
my foot in any of them.” 


STOCKINGS AND SHOES 


105 


For a minute Hilda thought Uncle Hank was very 
angry at her. 

“Gimme them things off your feet,” he said, and 
set her down. 

She handed the slippers to him. He took them, 
walked out through the kitchen calling to Sam Kee 
to bring a light. At the chopping block in the side 
yard, with the Chinaman holding his lamp high in the 
door, Hilda peering under an elbow, Hank caught up 
an ax and chopped off the French heels. 

“There,” he grunted, pounding down nails, looking 
the slippers over before he brought them to her, “put 
’em on, honey—they’ll do till to-morrow.” Then he 
raised his voice in a shout and called across to the 
bunk house: 

“Hi—some of you boys! Shorty, that you? Tell 
Thomps to take charge up at the big pasture in the 
morning. I’ll not be there. I’m going to Mesquite.” 

When he came back into the room with Hilda, he 
asked: 

“Didn’t Auntie get you any shoes when she ordered 
all them things from New York?” 

“No. She just got clothes for Burchie—to go to 
Fort Worth, you know. I guess she got him shoes. 
Mine weren’t so bad then.” She sat down and thrust 
out her feet to put the reformed slippers on. The 
old man stared at those feet and frowned. 

“Are those your best stockings, Pettie?” 

“Well, these are a pair of my every-day ones,” 
Hilda said slowly. 

“You put on your best ones, then.” 

“But the best ones are a lot worser—about having 
holes in the feet, if that’s what you mean, Uncle 
Hank. I keep them for best because they’ve got the 
holes mostly where they don’t show.” 


106 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


The old man held out a hand for the stockings 
which she pulled off and gave to him. He stood with 
one drawn over his big fist, shaking his head. 

“Pettie, these stockings ain’t got any holes in the 
foot,” he said unexpectedly, and she saw that his eyes 
were twinkling. “Ain’t any feet to ’em to have holes 
in. All that’s left where feet was is just a bunch of 
fringe. You bring me the best you’ve got, and I’ll 
show you how my ma used to foot stockings some¬ 
times for us children back in the Tennessee moun¬ 
tains.” 

Hilda brought the best of Miss Valeria’s silk stock¬ 
ings. The lamp was trimmed, turned high, Uncle 
Hank’s spectacles were got out and adjusted—which 
was almost a ceremony in itself—and he opened the 
big housewife that contained his needles and thread 
and a queer steel thimble open at the end. He sighed 
a bit over the coarseness of his implements and the 
fineness of the material he was to work on. 

“Ain’t got no heavier ones than these, have ye, 
Pettie?” he asked, and when she shook her head, 
“Oh, well—it’ll never be seen on a galloping hoss, and 
that’s sure what you are these days, honey.” 

The stockings were spread out evenly, their tatters 
cut away, a foot formed on exactly the pattern you 
may find in some woven stockings, a good new sole 
cut from the stoutest part of another stocking sewed 
in. The leg was seamed down to a reasonable fit for 
Hilda, and finally the job was complete. 

“There,” Hank laid his scissors by. “Might stand 
you in hand to know how to do that right—if you 
should ever have it to do, Pettie. My mother held 
that a woman that would fix over a stocking by just 
sewing it into a kind of a bag, with no real shaped 
foot, as I’ve seen done, was a slommick.” 


STOCKINGS AND SHOES 


107 


“Oh, I’ll fix over all the rest of them, Uncle Hank, 
now that you’ve showed me the way. I can do it. 
I’ll take pattern by these,” she looked fondly at the 
neatly folded pair lying on the table. “I won’t just 
sew them up into bags and be a slommick.” 

Through her mind drifted the vision of what a 
slommick might be like—a slidey creature, of the most 
slatternly, reprehensible “personal appearance,” and 
with a sort of elongated head, trailing hands that 
fumbled whatever they touched, dropped things and 
left them lying. Yes, as Shorty would say, she 
“savvied slommick, all right.” 

“You’ll not have to fix any more of ’em, this time,” 
said Hank with decision. “I’m going to Mesquite 
to-morrow.” 

“Oh, Uncle Hank—and you’ll get me some stock¬ 
ings? Maybe two pairs? I can do with two pairs— 
and these that you’ve fixed over so beautifully. Or” 
—suddenly remembering the money-eating, fire-spitting 
mortgages—“maybe I could get along with only one 
new pair.” 

He smiled a little, and said: 

“Have to have new shoes, too. And I bet you need 
frocks, and other things. Uh-huh, I see you do,” as 
he caught her eye. All of ’em have to be tried on, 
so’s they’ll fit. Nothing for it but to take you in with 
me.” 

“Oh, Uncle Hank—is beef up?” Hilda asked 
breathlessly, and he laughed out. 

“Does happen to be up, honey. Also, I wouldn’t 
have to sell a steer to git you what you need. But 
if I did, and beef was down to half price—and it 
would take the price of a herd—I’d sell. Uncle 
Hank’s little girl needs a new set of harness, com¬ 
plete—and she’s going to have it, too.” 


CHAPTER X 


THE CARRIAGE 


FTER that visit to Mesquite there was never 



any reason for complaint of Hilda’s neatness at 


“*• ^ school. The Mrs. Johnnie, that Uncle Hank 
had thought might be classed as a “local seamstress,” 
had made up the stuff they took her into plenty of 
dresses and undergarments, while as to stockings and 
shoes, now when she ran out of an evening to ride with 
Uncle Hank she had on such as even a rattlesnake 
might respect. 

These rides in of an evening, on the front of Uncle 
Hank’s saddle, with Buckskin going very slowly and 
soberly, were still the times best worth while out of 
all the day. Hilda always came primed with her day’s 
news, small happenings about the ranch or at school. 
But there arrived an evening when she burst forth 
somewhat incoherently, and quite breathlessly, while 
she was yet climbing on the boot-toe. 

“We can get it—can’t we, Uncle Hank?” 

“I ’spect so,” the old man agreed, looking down into 
the flushed, eager little face as he hauled her up cau¬ 
tiously into his arms. Then he added, as a casual after¬ 
thought, “Get what, Pettie?” 

“Oh—I forgot you didn’t know.” Hilda squirmed 
herself into a comfortable position. “Clarkie Capa- 
dine says the Three C’s is going to try. Kennie Taze¬ 
well, he says it’s every fellow for himself. And so we 
can get it—you just now said we could.” 

She sat astride the high-pommeled saddle in front 


108 


THE CARRIAGE 


109 


of the old man, her head against his chest. He smiled 
and slipped his left hand under the pointed chin. 

“What you think you’re talking about, honey?” he 
inquired. 

Hilda tipped her head back further and glanced 
briefly up at him. 

“The carriage,” she said. “Clarkie told us about it 
at recess. It’s got sea springs—sea springs, like waves, 
Uncle Hank.” (The small brown hands paddled 
about in the air to piece out a vocabulary that failed to 
undulate in the required luxurious manner.) “Sea 
springs, and ‘the best of material everywhere in its 
construction.’ ” (Smooth going here on a direct quo¬ 
tation from some manufacturer’s catalogue.) 

“Honey,” said Hank with a little drop in his tone, 
“I’d love to buy a carriage for the Sorrows—land 
knows, we need it, with the ambulance a staggering 
cripple like it is—one leg broke, an arm in a sling, both 
eyes blacked and an ear chawed off—but we ain’t got 
the money. You see, Capadine’s fixed differently, Pet- 
tie. He could buy a carriage for his folks any day.” 

Hilda had hung in rapt silence upon that fascinating 
description of the ambulance, a characterization whose 
every feature she recognized perfectly; but now she 
broke in: 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to buy a carriage! We’re going 
to win it—over at Dawn—at the fair—it’s the prize 
for the roping match.” 

“Hold on a minute.” Hank tightened one arm 
around her, and with the other reached down into the 
mail sack where, after some fumbling, he brought out 
a folded handbill. “Seems to me I saw something of 
that sort in here,” he said. 

Within the last few months, Lame Jones County 
had been organized; it had now a county seat of its 


110 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


own, in the little new cow-town of Dawn, much nearer 
to the Three Sorrows than Mesquite; they were cele¬ 
brating with a county fair, with all the usual cattle 
country contests and the approved cattle country 
prizes. 

The sheet was unfolded in front of them both. 
Hilda instantly began to read: “The Committee will 
spare no pains—” while Hank was running a finger 
slowly down the line of prizes offered. It was well 
that Buckskin knew the way, for he got no more guid¬ 
ance. 

The traveling forefinger reached the prize offered 
the successful contestant in the roping match. Hank’s 
bearded lips moved: 

“M-m-m, ‘cushions and cover genu-wine leather,’ ” 
he muttered. “You was about right, Pettie.” 

“Well, then, we can get it, can’t we?” she reiterated 
her demand as he let her down carefully by one hand 
at the doorstone. 

“Why, you see, Pettie, it’s a prize; and I don’t 
know for sure yet whether we’re prize-winners or not.” 

“Yes—course it’s a prize.” Hilda looked up at 
him impatiently, fairly dancing where she stood. 
“That’s what I told you at first. For the best roper. 
And Shorty’s the best roper.” 

“Yes,” assented Hank thoughtfully. “Shorty’s 
pretty good.” 

“Uncle Hank! Shorty’s the best roper in Lame 
Jones County—bar none—if old Snake does say it. 
And Shorty’s ours.” 

The old man looked at the great black eyes, glow¬ 
ing with excitement, the flushed cheeks, the parted, 
tremulous lips; and he sighed a little. 

“All right, sister. We’ll do the best we can; but 
don’t let it get in the way of your supper.” 


THE CARRIAGE 


111 


“I won’t, Uncle Hank.” Hilda shook her head 
earnestly. She was answering words he hadn’t spoken; 
she understood quite as well as though he had said 
aloud, “And don’t talk any more about it to-night,” 
and she assured him again, “I won’t.” 

He rode away to the corral to put up Buckskin, and 
Hilda hurried upstairs. He hadn’t laid a command 
upon her; but she answered to what she knew to be his 
wish with a zealous and adorned obedience: clean 
frock, smoothly combed curls, perfectly cleaned finger 
nails, a composed countenance. When she had accom¬ 
plished all this she flew downstairs to watch for his 
return from the corral. She hastened the serving of the 
supper, giving Sam Kee to understand by means of a 
hint so broad that it was almost a fib that Uncle Hank 
was already in the house. 

He arrived at last and went straight to his room, 
to wash up. Hilda nearly burst with impatience before 
he finally came down, the crinkled black-and-silver hair 
smooth and damp, the whole man soberly spick and 
span. They sat opposite each other at the dining- 
table, from which many leaves had been taken out 
to make it a suitable size for two, as they had so 
often sat before, served by the Chinaman. They 
talked as usual, but the thing they did not mention 
was, as ever in such cases, biggest in the conversa¬ 
tion. 

“Don’t wiggle your feet so much, Pettie. And eat 
that fine, juicy beefsteak. Your Uncle Hank fetched 
that quarter of beef all the way from the C Bar C 
especially so his little girl could have nice fresh steak, 
and Sam’s broiled it just right.” 

“I will, Uncle Hank,” and Hilda made a violent 
attack on her portion of steak. She kept the letter of 
the law. She never mentioned the carriage in words; 


112 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


but it pretty nearly wheeled out of her eyes every time 
she looked at Uncle Hank—and he saw it. She came 
nearest to breaking silence on the forbidden subject 
when at last he got up from the table and said, with a 
touch of embarrassment, that he must go over to the 
bunk house and see the boys about some work for to¬ 
morrow. Hilda did not ask to go along, as she often 
did; she only said: 

“All right, Uncle Hank,” and added suddenly, 
“Aunt Val and Burchie will be here in time.” 

Hank asked no questions and made no comments. 
He just took his hat and went, after a somewhat 
lengthened and considering survey of her. 

She had not meant to follow. But the moment the 
door closed, her feet walked her very softly and very 
quickly after him. The tall old man strode along the 
path that led from the side door, around the corner 
of Sam Kee’s vegetable garden, and in the dusk Hilda’s 
little figure flitted from bush to bush, behind him. She 
halted quite a distance away, at the last bush that was 
big enough to hide her, and there she gazed and lis¬ 
tened, fascinated. Uncle Hank stood at the edge of 
the porch, talking to one of the boys. He didn’t speak 
very loud. 

“Carriage” was the first word she got; then, 
“There’s some things that ought to be did, and there’s 
some things that just has to be did.” His grammar 
alone would have assured Hilda that he was very much 
in earnest, as he finished, “This here’s one of the kind 
that has to be did.” 

She saw Shorty squared up before Uncle Hank, half 
sheepish, half puzzled. 

“Er—I was thinking of trying for that silver 
trimmed sombrero they offer for the best gentleman 
rider.” The lamp shine from inside showed him grin- 


THE CARRIAGE 


113 


ning broadly. “You know I sure can ride pretty when 
I try.” 

“Ride pretty!” grunted old Snake, leaning in the 
doorway. “I ain’t never seen it. I’ll allow you can 
rope a little.” 

“Well,” cut in Hank, “it’s come right down to this: 
Charley’s buckboard is a wreck. It just can’t be drove 
no more. The ambulance is all we’ve got to take Miss 
Val and the kiddies out in, and it’s not very much 
better.” 

“That’s so,” agreed Thompson. 

“We’ll see Charley’s children hoofing it, or riding 
broncos,” Uncle Hank said severely, “unless some¬ 
thing’s did pretty quick.” 

“You want me to rope for the carriage?” Appar¬ 
ently Shorty began to understand. 

“I reckon you can wear your old hat another sea¬ 
son,” Snake jeered. 

Hank turned and sat down on the top step, and 
Hilda, afraid that he would see her, backed off into 
the friendly darkness where the talk came to her only 
in broken scraps. She could tell that they were plan¬ 
ning the campaign. Shorty said he would catch up his 
crack roping pony, Pardner, and grain feed him; he 
would go over his rope and entire equipment, and be 
in training for the match from this day forth. 

Of course he would. They always did practice for 
the contests, even when they were the best ropers in 
Lame Jones County—bar none. She wasn’t much in¬ 
terested in hearing them go over the names of those 
who, they were sure, would enter for the roping match. 
Shorty said Lee Romero was about the only one of the 
lot that he was much afraid of. Lee was with the 
Matador ranch this year, and known to be out after 
that carriage for them. In the dark Hilda smiled, all 


114 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


to herself. Lee was one of the Romero relatives of 
Maybelle and Fayte Marchbanks. Let him be out 
after the carriage for the Matador—Shorty would win 
it for the Three Sorrows. Bubbling with triumph, 
she slipped back to the house and up to her own room. 
She undressed without lighting her lamp. All that 
night the new carriage glided and sparkled through 
her dreams. 

Two days later Miss Valeria and Burch came home. 
No word of the wonderful new enterprise that was 
afoot was said to Aunt Val—Hilda knew better than 
that—but on the first day, the instant breakfast was 
swallowed, Hilda had her little brother out at the 
asequia, a favorite play place, and told him all about 
the carriage they were going to have. It got Burch’s 
attention because it had wheels. He was almost as 
silent with other people as when he went away, but to 
Hilda, he talked a little when the subject interested 
him—short sentences, like a man. Now she pulled 
down the cottonwood limb that leaned low across the 
water, had him climb to his place on it, seated herself 
beside him and gently waggling and teetering the 
bough with a pushing foot against the ground, she 
declared: 

“That’s the way the new carriage will ride, Burchie. 
And Uncle Hank said Shorty was to get it for us. 
Shorty has to do it if Uncle Hank says so.” 

Burch, filled full of breakfast and happy confidence, 
voted a strong yes. The two childish voices rippled 
an accompaniment to the rippling water. A king’s 
coach of state would have appeared a modest vehicle 
beside the one Hilda described. She had no need to 
have seen it. The shining of her belief in Uncle Hank 
alone lent glitter to the varnish and softness to the 
cushions. 


THE CARRIAGE 


115 


A dragon-fly flashed out from the other bank and 
hung above the water in all its burnished bravery, turn¬ 
ing, wheeling, flickering, darting here and there, a daz¬ 
zle of blue-black polish on body and wing. Hilda wel¬ 
comed it as an illustration. She had all along been 
afraid that her eloquence alone might fall short of 
convincing the material-minded Burch. Here was 
something concrete, visible, with which to back up her 
assurances, and she cried out softly : 

“It looks just like that, Burchie, only bigger. It’s 
as shiny as that, and it can go ’most as quick; but it’ll 
go the way Uncle Hank wants it to.” 

“It’ll go the way I want it to,” said Burch sol¬ 
emnly, watching the darting brightness. “I’ll drive it 
—when we get it.” He nodded his flaxen head toward 
the funny little green mound that stood in the side yard, 
matted with woodbine in the summer and wearing a 
peaked cap of snow of winters. “I’ll drive right up on 
top of the mountain, and down on the other side,” he 
announced. 

Hilda surveyed the mound doubtfully; it was as 
sharp and definite as an upturned cup. 

“Oh, no, brother,” she demurred. Then as she saw 
protest in his face, she hastened to modify, “Well, not 
right at first. You’d upset, I’m afraid. Let’s just 
drive round on the level for a good while; then, if 
Uncle Hank says you may, you can go over the moun¬ 
tain.” 

Day after day, for a whole week, their play was all 
concerned with the new carriage. It was present, with 
a wonderful reality, down behind the corral on sunny 
afternoons, out along the road from school, and beside 
the asequia. 

When the wonderful morning of the contest came at 
last, the ancient crippled ambulance was, in Uncle 


116 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Hank’s phrase, “toggled up,” a pair of good ponies put 
to it, and the old man drove his household over the 
eighteen miles of open plain to Dawn. Rose Marie— 
a creature of infinite fineness, quick intuition, and 
warm, responsive sympathies, a pal to share a jest or a 
triumph with, and one who could hold her tongue till 
the stars fell, in short, the perfect friend, the com¬ 
panion genial yet reticent, discreet without austerity— 
Rose Marie sat between Hilda and Burchie. Ahead, 
Shorty, Jeff, Buster, Missou’, old Snake Thompson, 
and the other Three Sorrows cowpunchers rode in a 
brave squad, from which came the sounds of jingling 
spurs, creaking saddles, and that deep, satisfying music 
of big bass voices. 

It was a customary caravan. Sometimes as Hilda 
rode on, she was a Persian princess in her palanquin, 
with her retinue of slaves; or a prisoner, torn from 
some stately and glittering home, her cruel captors 
galloping beside, exchanging callous jest and laughter 
across her delicious, silken-robed despair. Aunt Val, 
on the seat by her, even Uncle Hank in front driv¬ 
ing, never guessed what a world of her own, splendid, 
terrifying, marvelous, the child was riding through. 
Only Rose Marie might know. 

But to-day all such imaginings were put aside for the 
more instant matter of the new carriage. She neg¬ 
lected to make sounds of pursuit or rescue out of the 
thudding hoofs of the led horses behind the ambulance, 
where trotted Pardner, Shorty’s “gilt-edged cutting 
pony,” and the sober buckskin-colored mount from the 
back of which Uncle Hank purposed later to view the 
races and the contest. Though Rose Marie displayed 
a new frock constructed from a veil of Miss Valeria’s, 
the pressure of realities made it impossible for the doll 
to impersonate anything but a lady of the present day, 


THE CARRIAGE 


117 


residing in Lame Jones County, the Texas Panhandle. 

Even The-Boy-On-The-Train—who almost always 
took an important part in Hilda’s invisible dramas— 
when bidden to appear and bear Hilda company, ar¬ 
rived in the character of a judge of the races, who, with 
grace of manner indescribable, and in a large round 
voice, announced, at the close of the contest, that the 
rider for the Three Sorrows had so far outdistanced all 
the others, that the carriage would have been his more 
than thrice over. “More than thrice.” Hilda liked 
that phrase, and she repeated it several times, with 
variations and additions. Absorbed thus, she was ob¬ 
livious to the natural and usual stages by which they ar¬ 
rived at Dawn and the fair grounds, where, stepping 
abruptly from the world of fantasy, she became just a 
little girl with eyes, ears, and thoughts for only one 
item of all the gay show. The horses, the cattle, the 
patchwork quilts, buttonholes, preserves, tidies, and 
hand-painted pin-cushions got no attention from her. 
Uncle Hank, reading her state of mind correctly, found 
a comfortable seat for Miss Val, and then led Hilda 
and Burchie to where stood the special prize for the 
roping contest. 

With a good child’s outward docility, she listened, 
mute, to the eager speculations as to who would prob¬ 
ably win it. Of course nobody knew yet that the car¬ 
riage was Hilda’s very own. At any rate, the civil 
thing was to let these idle remarks pass unchallenged; 
and now the time was at hand when, Shorty having 
roped his steer, the Three Sorrows group could openly 
take possession of their own. 

Life went by with little flavor or meaning, while the 
many products of nature, and of man’s and woman’s 
skill, were sampled, judged and the awards made. It 
still crept on listless wing where Hilda sat with Miss 


118 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


IVal and Burchie in the grand stand; and the gentle¬ 
men rode for the bullion-trimmed sombrero, which 
Scotty MacQueen won; and the ladies rode for a re¬ 
splendent cow-girl saddle, which fell to Miss Jessie 
MacGregor. It made little better progress during the 
races, and the bestowal of the purse and the cup, the 
giving of the various first, second and third prizes. 
Yet it did pass. The moment did arrive when one 
said, and truly, that the roping contest was the only 
event now remaining. 


CHAPTER XI 

THE ROPING MATCH 

a r\ON’T squirm like that, Hildegarde,” remon- 
M strated Miss Van Brunt. 

Hilda’s dilated eyes were questing wildly 
for Uncle Hank among the group of horsemen. He 
was gone. If she asked Aunt Val she would never be 
allowed to leave; so without a word she slipped away 
in search, and presently found him at the corrals. Be¬ 
fore him Shorty stood, nursing upon his broad breast, 
with his left hand, something wrapped in a blood¬ 
stained handkerchief. 

And that something? Oh, surely it was not Shorty’s 
own right hand—the hand which could cast the swift¬ 
est, cunningest lariat in western Texas—the only one 
which could write, with a twirl of the looped rope, the 
children’s formal deed to the dear, dear carriage! 
Yet it must be so, for Shorty, a grown man, was cry¬ 
ing. Down his cheeks the big tears of anger and hu¬ 
miliation and disappointment were following each 
other, and he groaned: 

“Oh, durn a fool—they ain’t worth raisin’! Here 
I been working my arms and legs off for weeks to get 
a fine edge on for this roping match— Hank, I ought 
to have better sense than to let them Romeros get me 
into a scrimmage—I knew well enough they was out 
after the carriage for the Matador. Now I’ve busted 
my hand on Juan Romero’s jaw. None of our boys 
is readied up to ride for the Sorrows. There’s nobody 
to get that carriage for the kids. Hank—you ought 
to fire me.” 


119 


120 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Uncle Hank’s back was to Hilda. Unseen, unsus¬ 
pected she stood there, a small but excellent statue of 
Dismay. Here, at one blow, all hope and delight 
were struck out of life. Quite blind with despair, she 
turned and made a stumbling and uncertain way back 
to the grand stand, squeezing into her place beside 
Aunt Val and Burchie, carefully drawing her little 
dusty feet as far as possible from that lady’s flounced 
skirts. 

Darkness had fallen upon her world. Did these 
people about her think that the sun shone and that they 
were having a fair? Within Hilda’s mind final disas¬ 
ter had arrived. Listlessly she sat beside her aunt, 
watching heavy-eyed while the preparations for the 
favorite event were made. She saw the wild outlaw 
steers, that had been gathered from all the ranches 
about, driven in, fighting, bellowing, protesting, as they 
poured into the oval in-field of the race-track, where 
they were held in a large pen from which a smaller 
one opened by heavy bars. This should have been a 
glorious sight, but now it was only part of the pageant 
of Hilda’s defeat. 

Even when Colonel Jack Peyton, formerly of Ken¬ 
tucky, rode out upon his gold-dust sorrel with the 
cream-colored mane, and, lifting high his hat with a 
double-curved sweep, announced that the roping match 
was about to begin, she just let him be Colonel Peyton. 
If Shorty couldn’t ride, it was no use summoning The- 
Boy-On-The-Train to be judge. The crowd cheered 
him, as it always cheered the pictorial Kentuckian. 
Peyton bowed, flashed his white teeth in a smile be¬ 
neath his dark mustache and recited the terms: 

Each man should have only one trial, thus making 
the struggle short and sharp, and tincturing it with 
the stimulating element, chance. For the battle was 


THE ROPING MATCH 


121 


lost to him who failed to get a quick start after the 
steer at the outset, who missed his cast too often, or 
whose horse stumbled in a prairie-dog hole. From the 
mouth of the smaller pen, a steer was to be loosed to 
each contestant, and the moment his steer crossed the 
chalk-line he should be free to follow. 

The contestants rode out and arranged themselves 
in front of the judge’s stand. Hilda loved the sight of 
mounted men, accoutered as she was used to see them, 
for action. But she gave these a leaden glance— 
Shorty was not there. Young Doctor Ellis was near 
the center; he had a ranch of his own—maybe he’d win, 
and his little girls would ride in that carriage and 
never know that it belonged to Hilda and Burch—that 
it belonged to them “thrice over.” Dark and hateful 
looked the faces of the Romero brothers; Hilda would 
have had no trouble in placing them in her ballad world 
just then. They were “the enemy.” 

Suddenly she straightened up, trembling. Her heart 
gave a vicious buck and seemed to stand still; for, the 
last of the line (apparently a hasty afterthought in the 
entries), rode—Uncle Hank on Buckskin! 

A breeze of bantering applause greeted the old man. 
Some of it came from the grandstand. 

“Go it, Hank!” 

“Hi, Pearsall, hi!” 

“Say, Hank, whirl in and learn the boys how to rope 
a steer and tie him.” 

One strange, squeaking, falsetto voice, the mere 
sound of which called out peals of mirth, piped: 

“Well, I’ll be hanged—from head to foot! If old 
Hank Pearsall ain’t a-linin’ out after that kerridge.” 

At the ludicrous tone and the laughter that an¬ 
swered it, a familiar voice bawled: 

“Yes, and watch him get it too!” 


122 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Hilda looked to where Shorty stood, just below. 
She was thankful for a champion who could make him¬ 
self heard. The great black eyes in her little peaked 
face flashed, and her lip trembled. They’d better not 
treat her Uncle Hank disrespectfully! But no—it 
was all right; the old man was laughing. 

He took off his sombrero and bowed, with a touch 
of burlesque in his manner, in response to the familiar, 
hearty rallying. Even on horseback, his commanding 
six-foot-two of stature made itself noticed, while his 
hard leanness and his tremendous reach of arm were 
unmatched in that group of more youthful candidates. 

The riders drew back to station; the bars between 
the two pens were let down and a steer was admitted 
into the smaller enclosure—a lean, sorrel-colored ani¬ 
mal which ran instantly to the farther extremity of the 
pen, found it closed, and turned to rush back the way 
he had come. A mounted man with a big whip held 
him in check till the dividing bars were up. The bony, 
yellow brute whirled, and leaped from side to side of 
the little pen, attempting first one fence and then the 
other, to be opposed at each essay with whoops and 
yells, so that when the outer bars were finally with¬ 
drawn he shot forth, a tawny streak of maddened 
Texas steer. 

At the pen’s mouth waited Jim Tazewell, from the 
Quien Sabe, on his nervous bay cutting pony, Rusty. 
As the horse made after the yellow streak, Jim sitting 
easily in the saddle, his rope swinging about his head, 
over all the great assembly there was silence so intense 
that the soft noise made by the irregular thudding of 
those eight flying hoofs sounded curiously distinct. 
Tazewell had a pretty good start; Rusty was swift and 
dexterous. But there was a good deal of galloping and 
several thwarted attempts before the cast was success- 


THE ROPING MATCH 


123 


fully made; then came the moment of suspense when 
the pony was straining every nerve to keep with the 
steer, while both horse and rider watched for a chance 
to throw him. 

When they had succeeded, Tazewell leaped from the 
saddle to tie the animal, sprang erect and held up 
his hands, signaling that the business was done. The 
applause which followed its successful completion 
quieted down, the judge read out Tazewell’s time— 
sixty-two seconds. 

Throughout this spectacle, Hilda had sat bent for¬ 
ward, scarcely breathing. Her cold little hands were 
clutched tightly together. Her heart was torn be¬ 
tween the very real demands of neighborly kindness 
(for this was Kenny Tazewell’s papa) and her fierce 
loyalty to Uncle Hank. Even the carriage was for¬ 
gotten in the new emotion—this passion of blind parti¬ 
sanship, this spirit of crude, savage competition. Rose 
Marie, love’s martyr, clutched to strangulation in an 
unconscious grasp, made never a sign to betray her 
agonies. 

But now the yelling and whooping was renewed; a 
piebald steer galloped swiftly away from the outlet 
bars, followed by the rider from the Matador, young 
Lee Romero, nicknamed “the Kid,” a boy yet in the 
early twenties. 

Lee had ridden the range since he could crawl up on 
a horse, and was a crack roper, proud buster of bron¬ 
cos and of more than one faro bank. He made very 
certain, in his heart, of carrying the prize home to 
Velva Ortez of the Matador, and, as Hilda looked 
piteously at him, her own heart sank still lower. She 
secretly confessed that perhaps he was right. 

When the piebald shot across the chalk-line, Ro¬ 
mero, upon Nig, his black horse, close after him, tears 


124 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


rose and swam in Hilda’s eyes; and when, with no 
mishap whatever, Lee made his cast and the noose 
settled as though predestined about the curving horns, 
the little girl’s throat ached, a great tear splashed into 
Rose Marie’s skittish gamboge hair, and she mur¬ 
mured bitterly, beneath her breath: 

“But—but Uncle Hank’s older. He—Lee Romero 
ought not to— They might knowr— Uncle Hank 
can’t—” 

Her chest contracted spasmodically and cut the poor 
sentences in two with painful gasps. And the last, 
choking, whispering cry was always: 

“He—Uncle Hank—he’s older’n they are!” 

Meantime Lee had dropped into the carelessness of 
the cock-sure. As the steer fell heavily to the jerk of 
his staunch pony, he took two or three dallies round 
the saddle-horn with an off-hand flourish, skipped smil¬ 
ing from horse, and hastened, cord in hand, to tie 
his victim. But the instant the steer felt the hand of 
man upon him, he surged to his feet, casting Romero 
into a somewhat unsightly wad on the dusty turf. Of 
Hilda’s emotions at this sudden collapse of Lee Ro¬ 
mero’s fortunes probably least said is best. 

Nig pulled backward on the rope, but the Kid’s 
hasty dallies had not made it fast to the horn. With 
the first jerk it tautened, gave, gave yet again, and at 
the final vicious lunge, came off the saddle entirely, 
the piebald steer going over and over sidewise, Nig 
falling backward, just as young Romero was rising, 
somewhat dazed. 

A roar of amusement went up from the crowd; for 
nobody was hurt, and it would have been hard to say 
which of the three looked most sheepish, as they all 
got to their ten feet at once, the spotted steer, the vain¬ 
glorious Kid, or the pony, which had nowise been at 


THE ROPING MATCH 


12 5 


fault. Hilda laughed and trembled and cried all to¬ 
gether. She prayed, too, a little, under her breath and 
doubtfully, fearing that it might not be altogether re¬ 
spectful to approach God in such a connection. Yet 
refrain entirely, she could not. 

The next man was a rider of the C Bar C, Clarke 
Capadine’s ranch. He missed his throw repeatedly, 
and time was finally called upon him from the judge’s 
stand. 

There followed Zeph Baird, for the Bar 99, on his 
little horse, Scotty. When Baird at last negotiated a» 
successful cast of the rope, the big, heavy steer, with a 
tremendous plunge, jerked the light horse and rider 
forward on to their heads. Baird rolled free. There 
were exclamations and cries of distress as pony and 
steer struggled to their feet and, connected by the lar¬ 
iat, ran and pulled back and forth dangerously near 
the prostrate man. 

At sight of him lying there, a sense of bloodguilti- 
ness was upon Hilda, from which she was only rescued 
by mounted men going out and bringing him back, not 
seriously hurt. 

Meanwhile the pony, Scotty, seizing his chance when 
the lariat trailed beneath the big steer, suddenly “set 
back on the rope,” and the animal went over in a 
somersault, whereupon there broke out a perfect storm 
of relieved laughter, hand-clapping and cheering, amid 
which Scotty—true to his name—continued with great 
caution to move slowly backwards, keeping the rope 
taut, dragging the steer, inch by inch, until a man rode 
out and tied the animal’s feet. 

Here was a triumph which Hilda might praise with 
a light heart—Scotty was not a contestant with Uncle 
Hank. She clapped her hands and shouted generously, 
till Aunt Valeria fretfully bade her be still. 


126 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Jack Pardon of the Cross K, MacGregor’s ranch, 
rode next, and there was much noisy enthusiasm at the 
announcement of his record of sixty seconds, which 
bettered Jim Tazewell’s time by two seconds. There 
followed several riders whose respective performances 
were not especially notable, and none of whom suc¬ 
ceeded in lowering Pardon’s record. 

At last, standing up on her strained tip-toes, looking 
over the heads of those in front, Hilda could see that 
there was just one steer in the pen; she had already 
noted, with wildly beating pulses, that only one rider 
was left. In Lame Jones County’s great premier rop¬ 
ing contest, with Jack Pardon’s time of sixty seconds 
so far the best, there remained but one round to be 
fought: old Hank Pearsall, on Buckskin, the party of 
the first part; a long-horned, wild-eyed steer of the 
original Texas type, fleet, savage, knowing, the party 
of the second part. 

The tall, gaunt, brindled steer, at the yelling set up 
by the drivers, leaped over the lowered poles into the 
small pen and flung himself half across the outlet bars, 
refusing to be beaten back, bursting through them be¬ 
fore they could be taken down. Pearsall, somewhat 
delayed in getting his start after the animal, was re¬ 
ceived with a laugh. It was undeniable that both 
Buckskin and his rider bore a touch of the antiquated, 
which, despite old Hank’s look of the thoroughbred 
cowman, was irresistibly suggestive of humor in such 
a connection—a graybeard at the Olympic games. 

Hilda felt her chest swell and pinch in—swell and 
pinch in—not as though she were really breathing at 
all. Her throat seemed to close up altogether. A 
dimness was over her vision as she watched Uncle 
Hank, who, with his long loop swinging free from his 


THE ROPING MATCH 


127 


right hand, the rein hanging as loosely in the left, 
leaned forward, very upright and at an angle with his 
saddle, speaking a low word to Buckskin, while that 
worthy made for the flying steer. Hilda saw his lips 
move, and wondered if he, too, were praying, but 
decided against the likelihood of it. 

This steer was a notorious outlaw, which had made 
more than one roping match interesting. As Buckskin 
and Uncle Hank drew toward his left quarter, he 
whirled suddenly upon them. Hilda thrust Rose Marie 
down on the bench and sat on her and never knew 
it. She cried aloud, and was not aware of it. She in¬ 
stantly trafficked with Heaven, in a desperate panic of 
love and terror, proffering back all hope of the pre¬ 
cious, much-needed, long-desired carriage, if Uncle 
Hank were only permitted to return safely to her. A 
carriage one might forgo; it was in the nature of a 
luxury; Uncle Hank was the very groundwork and 
underpinning of existence. 

But Hilda had not reckoned with Buckskin, just as 
the brindled steer had not. If the steer was a survivor 
of numerous encounters, Buckskin was no less sea¬ 
soned a warrior. Disciplined cow pony that he was, 
veteran of many a roundup, wise, alert, quick as a cat 
and of an indomitable spirit, able to whirl where he 
stood almost like a man, Buckskin, whose eyes had 
never left the steer and whose instinct had warned him 
in advance of the big brute’s intended maneuver, made 
of the apparent check his rider’s opportunity. 

The movements were too quick for the eye to follow, 
but when again Hilda saw the group clearly, Buckskin 
had evaded those long, sharp horns and was once more 
upon the steer’s quarter, well back of him. Uncle 
Hank’s right arm lifted, the swinging coil of rope rose 


128 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


to the horizontal, sang round and round and out of it 
a line darted forward, exactly as the serpent sends 
forth its length from the spring of its coil. 

The noose opened like a live thing, dropped, clutched 
and fastened upon those spreading horns. Buckskin 
swerved in behind the running steer; Uncle Hank al¬ 
lowed the rope’s length to drop to the ground, and the 
steer, in his stride, ran over it, so that it trailed back 
to the rider’s hand from between the galloping hind 
feet. 

Instantly, Buckskin “set back on the rope,” with 
crouched haunches and braced forefeet. The line taut¬ 
ened; the brindled nose shot to earth; the hind feet 
rose and cut through the air in a half-circle, and the 
beast, having turned a somersault, alighted upon his 
back with such a thump that it seemed his spine must 
have cracked. 

There was hesitant cheering; Uncle Hank slipped 
from the saddle and ran to tie those four motionless 
feet. A sea of gratitude went over Hilda. Just as 
the old man’s weight was thrown upon him, the steer, 
which had been stunned for a moment, recovered 
breath and consciousness and reared tumultuously. 
But no cocksureness had been Hank’s. If he failed this 
day, please Heaven, it should be because he could not 
possibly win through, the best that he and Buck¬ 
skin could do. The rope had been made firmly fast to 
the saddle-horn—the rope which, prepared for Shorty’s 
use, they had tested and tried for this very exigency. 
With the creature’s first wild plunge, Buckskin heaved 
himself backward, while Uncle Hank’s strong arm 
grappled the big horns, and all his weight was flung 
upon the rearing head, which once more went down 
flat upon the plain, the long, brindled neck stretched 
out to Buckskin’s zealous pull. 


THE ROPING MATCH 


129 


Once more the clapping and cheering broke forth, 
but this time with no assistance from Hilda. She was 
past speech. The sudden relief had left her weak. To 
an accompaniment of friendly applause, Uncle Hank 
tied his steer’s feet, sprang erect and threw up his 
hands. The cheerful noise held for a moment, then 
all was intensely still as Colonel Peyton was seen to 
ride up to the judge’s stand, stop-watch in hand. 

Judge Eldredge leaned across and spoke to the colo¬ 
nel. There was a brief space of uncertainty, during 
which Hilda was sure she aged rapidly; several voices 
were heard in unofficial statements, which cleft her 
heart like so many swords. 

“Sixty-two seconds, I make it,” announced one. “It’s 
a tie with Tazewells’ time.” 

“Better’n that,” declared another. “Pearsall made 
it in exactly—” 

Old man Morrison broke in with: “Oh, no, you’re 
’way off. Hank’s time is only sixty seconds—jest one 
plumb minute. My watch—” 

“Ssh!” cried the crowd as one man, for Colonel Pey¬ 
ton and the gold-dust sorrel were coming forward. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Kentuckian began, as 
he bowed, smiling, “friends and fellow-citizens of our 
new county, I think we have all been given a surprise.” 

A vague murmur arose. The smiling speaker waited 
a moment, then continued: 

“I take pride in stating that the best time made to¬ 
day is fifty-eight seconds. The winner distanced all 
other contestants by just two seconds. Ladies and gen¬ 
tlemen—” 

The dark eyes enjoyingly swept the mute expectant 
faces before him—none knew better than Colonel Pey¬ 
ton of Kentucky how to heighten an effect by dramatic 
delay. 


130 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure in 
announcing to you that the prize goes to Henry J. 
Pearsall, riding for the Ranch of the Three Sorrows.’’ 

Colonel Jack Peyton smiled and pranced away on 
his gold-dust sorrel, without the least suspicion that he 
had just made an appearance and uttered a speech that 
would, by comparison, leave all after efforts of his life 
vain and useless. 

Meantime, the surprise and approval which The- 
Boy-On-The-Train’s understudy had bespoken, had 
answered the announcement. Uncle Hank, quietly 
leading in Buckskin, was met and hailed and pounded 
on the back, as he made his way toward the grand 
stand, where a small girl with very large dark eyes 
stood up on the seat and unconsciously cried aloud her 
inmost heart, mopping the tears from her face with a 
rag-doll’s gamboge hair. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE FUGITIVE 


FTER that roping match, on the ranch of the 



Three Sorrows—a small island of human life and 


interests, surrounded on every side by a sea of 
grass whose fishes were cattle—year followed year un¬ 
til five had been added to the number of them, and 
Hilda was thirteen. 

The carriage, now a sober, elderly vehicle, had car¬ 
ried Miss Val and Burchie many times as far as Mes¬ 
quite on their journeyings to Fort Worth, for Miss 
Val—who was now frankly the invalid—found there at 
the sanitarium a system of baths and massage which 
she said helped her neuralgia very much. But it never 
helped it enough to let her live at the ranch more than 
a month or so at a time, and Burch she must have with 
her. She put him in a Fort Worth school and said 
she’d keep him under the doctor’s observation till he 
should be perfectly sound. 

To anybody else’s notion but hers, he had been that 
for a long time. It appeared there had never been 
anything the matter with his hearing; anyhow, he was 
now a particularly well-grown boy for his years, still 
silent, and with that air he might have inherited from 
his father, or caught from Aunt Val, of being just a 
visitor at the ranch. He never seemed to belong to it 
—or it to him. Hardly any of the things Hilda cared 
most for were of interest to Burch. 

Of course, he was off there in Fort Worth during 
the “Winter of the Big Snow,” that heart-breaking 


131 


132 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


season which followed the blizzard that marooned 
Uncle Hank and Hilda on the Bar Thirteen. The 
Three Sorrows had been provided, as well as Uncle 
Hank could provide, against such a happening with 
stacks of the coarse laguna hay; but Hilda would never 
forget that time when, kept home from school by the 
weather, she tried to help with the poor weak cows 
that pawed at the frozen snow without being able to 
get through to anything they could eat, or licked it 
without being able to get anything they could drink. 
Uncle Hank said she worked like a little Trojan, and 
from that year she felt herself more and more increas¬ 
ingly his right hand. 

So the brother to whom she wrote dutiful letters, 
whenever she wrote to Aunt Val, and who soon began 
to send her back short answers that were rather bet¬ 
ter written and spelled than her own, came to cut lit¬ 
tle figure in her life of work and play. At school there 
were companions of her own age to contend against, 
confide in—boys and girls who lived the ranch life. 
And there was always The-Boy-On-The-Train to re¬ 
member. In all this time, Hilda had never forgotten 
him. He seemed more real in some ways than Burch 
or Aunt Val or any one or anything that had belonged 
to the old life. All else that concerned that time got 
dim and changed; he remained the one who was always 
just right—the one who could do no wrong. 

But when there is a live boy, like Kenny Tazewell 
or Clarke Capadine, at hand to ride races with, how 
then? Does one forget the absent—at least while the 
hot blood is drumming in one’s ears, and every trick 
that Uncle Hank has taught is needed to keep the pony 
going straight, to stay on him and avoid dog-holes? 
We-ell, maybe so. But when the there-present boy 
wins, and isn’t very nice about it, and there might be 


THE FUGITIVE 


133 


some suspicion that he didn’t ride fairly, ah, then one 
recalls with pride and joy The-Boy-On-The-Train, the 
being without fault, the dweller in the fair mirage-land 
of memory, who could be nothing less than noble and 
generous! 

He would never have ridden the faster pony. He 
would be incapable of crowding one in so close to the 
fence that it was pull up or be scraped off—and that, 
too, after treacherously offering that side of the road 
in all appearance of good faith. No, no! Far other¬ 
wise. He would have brought the proud-crested barb, 
or the milk-white palfrey swifter than the steeds of 
dawn, or the coal-black stallion eagle-winged, for his 
lady to ride. He would have helped her on, resigned 
the best place, and smiled when her mount outran his’n 
—oh, well, then, his . 

The Marchbanks children had never come again to 
the Capadine ranch. Colonel Lee Marchbanks stayed 
in New Mexico. They all went into Hilda’s world of 
memory and tradition. The further edge of this world 
of tradition and memory melted into the world of 
books. And Hilda had got to be a great reader of 
books. 

There had come to Texas with the Van Brunt furni¬ 
ture quite a library. Some of it was unpacked and 
filled the bookshelves in the living-room; when it over¬ 
flowed these, a lot of it went into the little place they 
called the office; but there were still books in boxes in 
the cellar. The things Hilda loved best she read over 
and over; she knew pages of Marmion and Lady of 
the Lake by heart, not to mention her beloved ballads. 
Great musical, stirring lines from these were always 
jingling through her head when she played at home. 
Sometimes she went about saying them under her 
breath. Or—and this was a sort of fearful pleasure— 


134 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


saying some lines of her own that she more or less 
made up as she went along. 

If you did that long enough, the things around you 
changed, kind of melted into a dream: the ranch house 
became a castle; Shorty and Missou’ and the others 
were retainers; old Sam Kee, in the kitchen, was a 
Swart Paynim—he made a very good Swart Paynim, 
indeed. 

With one of Aunt Val’s cast-off dresses on, a veil 
arranged for the headdress of a castle lady, the dream 
thrived splendidly. At these times she instinctively 
dodged Uncle Hank and the boys as much as she could. 
It broke in dreadfully to have one of them sing out: 
“Hello, Hilda—playin’ lady?” It even hurt to have 
Uncle Hank look at her with absent fondness and call 
her “Pettie,” when it seemed he might almost have 
seen that she was the despairing lady of “the house 
of the Rhodes,” with bloody Edom o’ Gordon be¬ 
sieging her walls. 

But one day, in the spring of the year she was thir¬ 
teen, rummaging in the cellar, trying to pry open a 
heavy box of books, she made a wonderful find. Back 
of these boxes, concealed by them and forgotten, be¬ 
cause they had stood untouched there for years, she 
discovered an opening in the earth wall—an unmistak¬ 
able door. It was low, not very wide, unframed except 
by the earth-and-stone walls of the cellar side, made of 
rough, heavy planks marked with hieroglyphics of dust 
and draped mournfully with cobwebs; it had iron 
hinges like those on the stable door, and was closed 
only with a loop of leather and a big nail. Silent, un¬ 
known, unsuspected—a very gateway of mystery—all 
alone down there under the ground, this crude, sinister, 
little door stung Hilda’s imagination like a strange, 


THE FUGITIVE 


135 


threatening word out of another tongue, whispered in 
the dark. 

Trembling, she pushed upon it. It gave inward 
creakingly. Utter blackness was beyond it. She flew 
up the cellar stairs to Sam Kee with a breathless de¬ 
mand for a candle. After some argument, the candle 
was secured and lighted. She hurried to the cellar and, 
with a heart that beat to suffocation, cautiously shoved 
open the door—her door—her discovery. 

She entered, not without half-ecstatic tremors. It 
was an underground passage! She traversed twelve 
or fifteen feet of the narrow corridor, where earth 
showed between rough planking, and came to another 
door. This one sagged half-way open, revealing a fair¬ 
sized chamber, earth-walled also behind its planks, and 
with a heavily timbered ceiling, big beams in its cor¬ 
ners and at intervals along the sides, and a window 
with a batten shutter opposite the entrance. She stood 
a moment, enraptured, the candle flame going up very 
straight and sickly in that unaired space. Then she 
went almost reverently across the floor of beaten earth, 
set down her candle and pulled at the rusty hasp of the 
shutter. It came back suddenly with a creak. Day¬ 
light streamed in—sunlight—checkered by a strong 
lattice of naked woodbine stems. Between these she 
peered. There was the spring, with the sheen dancing 
on its waters as it pulsed away into the asequia. She 
must be standing inside of the steep green mound by 
the willows, the “mountain” up which Burch had pro¬ 
posed to drive the new carriage. This window must 
pierce its slope, masked by the woodbine. She had in 
fact come upon the forgotten cyclone cellar of the 
ranch house. In a daze of delight, she looked about 
her. 


136 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Oh, oh!” she whispered under her breath, then 
flew to bring in an old broom from the cellar outside, 
and with it some cloths; swept and wiped away the 
accumulated dust. Her mind was clamorous with 
plans. Rose Marie and Captain Snow would be the 
only companions she could have here, the only sharers 
of the secret whose discretion might be trusted; and 
the place must be made fit for the great white cat’s fas¬ 
tidious fancy, the doll’s cambric daintiness. 

There was a big box for the table, a smaller one for 
a chair, and Burchie’s disused high-chair to prop the 
doll in. At one side was a shelf with some empty 
bottles and cans on it. These she replaced by an arm¬ 
load of her favorite books from the library. She made 
a game of this, though there was nobody in the house 
but stolid Sam Kee, who never asked any questions. It 
was delightful to pile up the things she wanted taken 
down, then scout and see that “the coast was clear,” 
catch them up and run with them, outwitting espion¬ 
age, evading pursuit. When all was done she sur¬ 
veyed the chamber and its furnishings with satisfaction. 
Here was the place to read, to make up stories, to 
dream and act those she read or made up. In short, 
here was a new stage—secret, safe, solitary—on which 
the never-ending, always-changing drama might go 
forward. Here was innocent escape from the world 
about her, well-loved, comfortable, but too definite, too 
importunate to permit the dream—the blessed and 
beautiful dream—which would undoubtedly come true 
in such a place as this. 

One sunny, blowy Sunday afternoon Hilda forsook 
the light of day and made her way through the dark 
passage into the cyclone cellar, her candle held high 
in one hand, the other carefully conveying a bat¬ 
tered tray on which were some cakes and half a glass 


THE FUGITIVE 


137 


of jelly. On the box table lay a sort of costume into 
which she got, after she had set down tray and candle 
before the doll’s fixed stare. 

The dress was her favorite of all those cast-offs of 
Miss Valeria’s, a changeable silk, shimmering from 
green to gold as the plain itself did when the buffalo 
grass was tall on it and the wind went over. There 
was a froth of lace and little bright-colored ribbon 
bows for trimming, exactly like the tossing bells of 
wild hollyhock or the phlox that bloomed in millions 
on that plain. Oh, it was a heavenly dress to wear 
when you were playing Flora MacDonald rowing 
Prince Charlie across the lake, or Katherine Douglass 
barring the door against the enemies of King Jamie— 
barring it with her arm, which they broke as they 
burst through! 

To-day it was to be Flora MacDonald, and the 
asequia —the little irrigating ditch—was to be the 
“practicable water” for the scene. Hilda pulled the veil 
into place on her hair, swung the long trailing skirts 
smoothly down her slim little figure and slipped across 
to open the shutter behind the masking lattice of wood¬ 
bine stems, her lips already moving, murmuring frag¬ 
ments of high converse, phrases of faith, loyalty, grati¬ 
tude, renunciation. Her big black eyes swam full, 
misty with the vision. She had stepped—as always on 
entering the cyclone cellar—from Texas soil into the 
realm of romance. 

The open shutter let in the dancing light reflected 
from the water, and all checkered with the beautiful 
thatch of tender green leaves that the woodbine was 
sprouting. Without coming to earth at all, Hilda felt 
the joy of it. Leaning ardently forward, she rustled 
the woodbine stems, whereupon some one, stooping to 
drink at the spring just outside her casement, started 


138 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


violently, sprang half erect, whirled and stood staring 
directly into her face. 

A fugitive! Even to Hilda the fact spoke plain. 
She—expecting to see, with the vision of fancy, exactly 
what now confronted her in the flesh—was not greatly 
startled. The young fellow stood looking at her, his 
head, with its fair hair flung up, the blue eyes full of 
terror. While she gazed at him, lips apart, unable to 
emerge from her spell of fantasy, he reached out 
vaguely to the dusty, big hat that lay beside him on 
the grass, got quite to his feet and, with a glance be¬ 
hind him, came up to the woodbine lattice. He laid a 
shaking hand upon it, peering through at her face, 
anxiously, doubtfully—and began with a sort of fal¬ 
tering haste: 

“Can I—could I get—in there? Can you hide me? 
They’re close after me!” 

“They” had been “close after” pretty much every¬ 
body in Hilda’s cyclone-cellar world for a long time 
now. He looked the part, and this was the one thing 
he could have said without jarring the dream, without 
so much as brushing the down from the tip of its rain¬ 
bow wing. At the words, she sank back gratefully into 
the realm of the fabulous, and he receded from the 
world of reality to follow her there. 

“Why, yes,—your—” she hesitated an instant. 
“Your Majesty,” she whispered, just above her breath. 

Perhaps he was not quite sure of the word; perhaps 
he was too perturbed to notice such a detail. 

“Quick!” he urged; “show me how to get in there.” 

Something about his face challenged and puzzled 
her. There was a haunting resemblance about the look 
of his eyes. Yet all realities strove vainly for more 
than vague recognition now. She was in a sort of rap¬ 
ture as she leaned forward and whispered: 


THE FUGITIVE 


139 


“Stay for me; I will not fail you.” Then, to make 
sure: “I’m coming. I’ll bring you in here.” 

She gathered up her draperies and ran. The day¬ 
light world of the Three Sorrows had never seen those 
trailing, faded splendors, ravished from Aunt Val’s 
cast-offs; but haste was indicated. A moment later, to 
the young fellow at the spring, hanging doubtfully on 
his heel, a hunted glance over his shoulder, preparing 
for flight, there came skimming across the grass a 
quaint figure. The dress of Hilda’s contriving trailed 
behind her flying feet, the tangle of mist-fine dark curls 
was half covered by a coifling veil, worn in the manner 
of castle ladies as they appear in the frontispieces of 
feudal romances. The fugitive looked in wonder. She 
ran to him and took his hand and pulled him toward 
the house. He held back a little, but she urged vehe¬ 
mently : 

“You’ll have to come right through here. It’s the 
only way.” 

In the kitchen door, at sight of the Chinese cook, 
the young fellow checked wildly. Hilda gripped his 
hand in both hers, and dropped momentarily out of her 
part to explain: 

“It’s only Sam Kee. He doesn’t count. He never 
tells on me—do you, Sam?” 

The Chinaman looked placidly about eighteen inches 
over their heads, smiled, and seemed to imply that the 
room was empty except for himself. There was some¬ 
thing reassuring in this attitude, and Hilda’s chance 
guest followed her quickly down the cellar steps, be¬ 
hind the pile of boxes, and through the passage that 
led to the cyclone chamber. 

“Are you—are you an-hungered?” she asked, with 
a sort of half-tentative hardihood. 

He dropped down on the box seat and eyed the food 


140 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


with an air so exactly suited to his role that she took 
heart and fell into the familiar phraseology: 

“Here is the humble meal I have provided. If you 
will rest and refresh yourself, I’ll, I’ll—” 

Her voice trailed a bit at last. The newcomer was 
looking at her with so sharp an inquisition that it sent 
a vague pang through her heart. 

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I’m hungry.” The blue 
eyes went swiftly over the items on the cracker-box 
table. Under that glance they seemed to diminish 
somewhat in bulk and decline in nourishing quality. 
Hilda became acutely aware of the realness of his 
trouble, the actual dust on his clothes, the parched, 
cracked lips, the exhaustion and distress of his whole 
young figure. 

“I can get something more,” she said hurriedly. “I 
can make Sam Kee give me a glass of milk and some 
bread, and, I guess, some—some—chicken.” 

“Wait—” He caught her as she passed, exam¬ 
ining her face with that bluntly inquiring, suspicious 
gaze. “Can you get the things without anybody else 
knowing? You wouldn’t tell any one else—” 

“Oh,” cried Hilda, aghast. “Betray you? No, no, 
no—never—of course not!” 

Slowly, as though still half uncertain, he released 
her. She turned and almost ran through the familiar 
dark passage. In her breast choking sympathy re¬ 
proached the triumphant delight of having her play 
come true. Andithere hung, as it were, on the heels of 
these swifter emotions, a slow, uncomprehending sense 
of hurt at the fugitive’s lack of trust in her. 

Negotiations with Sam Kee were brief, for Hilda 
had that within her which reckoned with no refusal. 
It seemed to her but a moment that she was gone, yet 
she found that her guest had eaten the last crumb of 


THE FUGITIVE 


141 


the little cakes. He fell ravenously upon the more 
substantial food she brought back. 

“Sam Kee’s making a cup of coffee,” said Hilda. 

The young fellow nodded his head. When he had 
finished the food, he looked across at her and said: 

“I guess I’ve got to tell you about myself.” 

“You needn’t,” Hilda maintained loyally. 

He sat for a while, looking away, a clenched hand 
lying on his knee. Twice he drew in his breath to 
speak, and turned his head, without ever quite bringing 
his gaze around to hers. Suddenly he got up and went 
to the window. He stood there, plucking at the vine 
leaves. Her big black eyes followed him; they noted 
that bright hair—dusty now, sweat-darkened in streaks, 
yet such as a prince ought to have; they dwelt on the 
outlines of his tired figure, rimmed with its halo of 
light; gallant, victorious, yet in danger, needing her— 
she could read all that into it. He whirled abruptly 
and came toward her. 

“Suppose they told you I’d killed a man,” he said. 

There was an awful silence in the close little room. 
Hilda was as one who comes upon a dizzying abyss, 
horrible, chaotic, yawning to swallow both dream and 
reality. But she was made of heroic stuff. In spirit 
she approached the edge and looked down, wincing but 
resolute and clinging to the hand of her hero. 

It was terrible; why, yes, to be sure it was terrible. 
But, oh, it had a gorgeous thrill to it! What was the 
use of hiding a fugitive and enduring “all” for his 
sake if he hadn’t committed some dreadful deed— 
several of them, for that matter? Richard Cceur de 
Lion slew men in heaps and piles; so did King Harold. 
Why, all the kings and princes did, and the splendid 
warriors, in those old times. Shorty knew fellows 
that had killed their man, and Buster and the others, 


142 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


too; and they said they were good boys just the same. 
More than once there had been a man at the Three 
Sorrows table, or sequestered in the Three Sorrows 
bunk house, about whom it had been an open secret 
that he was “on the dodge” because of a shooting 
scrape. If you came right down to it, Uncle Hank 
himself had lent the last one a horse and money. 
These considerations did not decide Hilda’s course. 
She was for her fugitive anyhow, right or wrong, and 
whatever or whoever might have been against him. 
But there was a certain pleasure in realizing her im¬ 
mediate public opinion to be with her. Aloud, she said: 

“How—why—how did you know to come to me?” 

He answered, curiously, with another question, com¬ 
ing slowly back and sitting down again: 

“This is the Three Sorrows ranch, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought it was, but I didn’t dare to ride up and 
ask.” Then, after a moment’s pause, in which he 
studied her, “You must be Hilda Van Brunt.” 

“I am Hilda.” 

“Thank God. I’m all right, then.” 

“Yes,” said Hilda. “I’ll take care of you.” 

“Is your father in the house? Can you bring him 
down here ?” 

They were sitting on opposite sides of the box table, 
the candle between them sending up its flame very tall 
and straight and steady. When the boy said this 
Hilda’s little peaked face looked suddenly white, be¬ 
cause the eyes became bigger and darker with the dila¬ 
tion of their pupils. She locked her hands hard to¬ 
gether in her lap to keep from sobbing outright in her 
excitement. She reminded herself of the dust on his 
clothes, the feeling of his hand when she had taken it 
to drag him past Sam Kee. There was nothing to be 


THE FUGITIVE 


143 


so dreadfully frightened about. After a long time— 
the boy watching her, puzzled and uneasy—she got 
her voice under control. 

“Didn’t you know my father was dead?” she asked, 
very low. “He was killed in a roundup seven years 
ago, and there’s nobody to look after my brother and 
me and the ranch—and even Aunt Val—but Uncle 
Hank.” 

The newcomer sat perfectly still a moment, staring 
blankly. Slowly the bright head went down on his 
arms, his shoulders began to heave. 

Hilda gazed with an agony of repressed pity at that 
prone, boyish head. The young fellow seemed to her 
a man, and his grief a thing to shake the foundations. 
Her hand longed to steal out and touch him, but she 
drew it back. She looked about the dark little plank- 
walled chamber, lit by its one candle. With a start of 
something so alien that it was almost distaste, her 
eye encountered Rose Marie’s saucy, smiling beauty 
over among the shadows of one corner. Yet the big, 
somber burden of Hilda’s yearning sympathy was 
played upon, shot through and through and lightened 
by delectable, rosy shafts. It was so very real; it was 
so very dear to be of use—to be of great use. With 
instinctive tact she took no notice of her guest’s out¬ 
burst, but crept away to take the dishes to Sam Kee. 
Returning, she gave considerate warning with a little 
fumble at the inner door, and when she entered caught 
up Rose Marie and thrust her out of sight (a gesture 
as significant in its way as, in an earlier day, was the 
investing of the Roman lad with the toga virilis) this 
was no affair for dolls. She edged into the seat across 
from the fugitive. Presently he raised his head and 
spoke: 

“Hilda” (somehow his use of her name startled 


144 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


her), “those men are after me—if they get their hands 
on me—I guess they’ll hang me.” 

“Oh,” breathed Hilda, and the dream began to 
draw away. 

“I remembered that Three Sorrows was right over 
here in Lame Jones County”—yes, that’s just what he 
said: “I remembered that the Three Sorrows was right 
over here in Lame Jones County,” and Hilda’s eyes 
grew bigger as she gazed at him. Her breath began 
to come short. 

“You’re—” she whispered. 

But he went on, not heeding, “I knew if I could get 
here, I’d be safe.” 

Then Hilda cried out: 

“You’re The-Boy-On-The-Train!” 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE-BOY-ON-THE-TRAIN 

“T T -S-S-SH 1” The boy’s anxious eyes were on 

I I her. “I—I thought you knew me, Hilda. I’d 
never have come into this place to hide—if 
I hadn’t thought you knew me. I knew you, the min¬ 
ute I saw your eyes.” 

“Did you?” Hilda thought that was rather a stu¬ 
pid, inadequate thing to say, the minute it was out. 
But the shock of having the memory and the dream 
burst in upon the realities of her play and mix up with 
it like this left her almost without words. “It’s all 
right,” she whispered, finally. “I’ll take care of you— 
same as Father would have done.” 

There was no danger of being overheard, yet she 
whispered. In her breast flamed all the ardors of all 
the heroines whose brave deeds she delighted in and 
envied. The amazing, the incredible, had happened. 
The-Boy-On-The-Train was here. He hadn’t arrived 
with music and flying banners. He had fled to her, ac¬ 
cused, pursued, in danger. He had fled to her! That 
thought would have given her strength for more than 
she had to do. She bent forward and murmured 
eagerly: 

“Nobody knows this place but me. Nobody can find 
you. I’ll bring you food—I can bring plenty—even if 
you have to stay for days and days. I’ll get the coffee 
now—just wait.” 

She hurried out, threaded the passage swiftly, went 
145 


146 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


up the stairs into the kitchen—and came upon Uncle 
Hank standing talking to Sam Kee! 

Why did she not rush to him with news of the lad in 
the cellar? He had given money, as well as shelter, 
to that other fugitive—the one the boys had hidden in 
the bunk house that time—the one that had killed a 
man. Was it only an unwillingness to share her re¬ 
sponsibility and her joy in that responsibility? 

Hank had never seen the castle-lady dress which she 
now carelessly exposed to his view. It made him smile, 
as he asked: 

“What you up to, Pettie, all rigged out that-a-way? 
Playin’ lady?” 

She stiffened at the kindly patronage of the tone. 

“Yes, I’m playing,” she said briefly. A furtive look 
went to the candle and cup of hot coffee which Sam Kee 
had prepared and set on the table, according to the 
bargain made and ratified with him. She got away 
from Uncle Hank, just how, she could not afterward 
remember; details of this sort escape from persons of 
her temperament. As a matter of fact, she had made 
up her mind to be a little severe with the old man if 
he was too inquisitive. But, fortunately for him, he 
was busy, his thoughts were elsewhere, and so he es¬ 
caped this severity, and she got downstairs with the 
coffee before it cooled. 

When Hilda got back she found that the boy had 
Opened the shutter under the woodbine, and stood 
there looking at something he held in his hand. 

“Oh—ought you?” Hilda asked. 

“Yes. It’s all right. When I was out there, and 
spoke to you, I couldn’t see a thing till I came right up 
and put my face against the vines. What does this 
mean, Hilda?” 


THE-BO Y-ON-THE-TRAIN 


147 


She saw now that he held a letter-head of the ranch; 
printed at the top was: “Ranch of the Three Sorrows, 
Lame Jones County, Texas, Henry J. Pearsall, Mgr.” 

“Is—is that man here—now?” 

“He isn’t in the house—but he will come—at dinner 
time, I guess,” Hilda spoke falteringly; her responsi¬ 
bility for the fugitive had been sweet; but, of course, 
he’d rather depend on Uncle Hank than on a small 
girl. “I’ll tell him about you when he comes, if you 
want me to,” she finished in a diminished voice. 

There was a long silence between them, of a quality 
curiously embarrassing to Hilda. She felt ready to 
cry. 

“Don’t you want me to tell Uncle Hank?” The 
boy looked bewildered. 

“Is that your father’s brother? It isn’t any one that 
was with you coming out here?” 

“He’s not my real uncle. It’s—you know—the man¬ 
ager.” She pointed to the sheet he still held. “He’d 
be just the same as papa. He’d do anything that papa 
would do.” 

She broke off, noting how reluctant he seemed. 

“I’ll not tell him—or anybody—if you’d rather 
not,” she said—and felt a guilty thrill of rapture as he 
responded: 

“Well—for the present—maybe it would be better.” 

Hilda tried to say something in answer to that, but 
somehow she couldn’t. A sort of disconsolate silence 
held the dim little chamber for a time. Then, just as 
the young fellow seemed about to speak again, this 
silence was broken startlingly by the jingling and thud¬ 
ding sounds of mounted men coming at a trot into the 
side yard, almost over their heads. 

Instantly he reached forward and snuffed out the 
flame of the candle, and Hilda darted to the window 


148 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


and softly closed the shutter. As she came back on 
her way toward the passage, he groped out in the dark¬ 
ness and caught her hand, whispering: 

“What shall we do?” 

“Just be still,” Hilda breathed, close to his ear. 
“You’re safe here. I’ll go and deceive—the—pur¬ 
suers.” 

She went toward the door; stopped a moment, look¬ 
ing over her shoulder, trying to see him in the dark, 
then went out; dragged shut the sagging door after 
her; blundered along the passage; slammed the outer 
one with a noise that scared her; pantingly shoved the 
empty boxes and barrels in place to conceal it, and ran 
up the cellar stairs. In the warm, sweet-smelling 
kitchen Sam Kee was making dried-apple pies. As she 
fled past, she thought he said to her, “You all light. 
No be scare.” Then she was in the office door, and 
some strange men were coming in at its other door 
with Uncle Hank. 

“You’re free of the whole ranch, Sheriff Daniels,” 
the old man was saying. “You and your posse are 
welcome to search.” The crispness of his tone made 
something way down deep in Hilda giggle and clap its 
hands. Goodness—wasn’t she glad she hadn’t told 
Uncle Hank! He—even he—couldn’t have spoken up 
that way if he’d known what was hid in the cyclont 
cellar. Now he went on: 

“Miss Van Brunt has got the little boy with her in 
Fort Worth. Just at this speaking there’s only Pettie 
and me and the cook about the place. It’s broad day¬ 
light. Couldn’t nobody have got into the house with¬ 
out being seen—but you’re free to search. And you’re 
welcome to go around to the bunk house and see if you 
can find any one there. I always give the law any 
assistance in my power.” 


THE-BOY-ON-THE-TRAIN 


149 


“Well, we trailed him so far, and I’ve been pretty 
well over your ranch, Pearsall,” the Sheriff said in the 
irritable tone of a man who is losing. “If he ain’t in 
the house, I don’t know where he’s at. With your per¬ 
mission, we’ll look here, and when your boys come in 
at noon we’ll see if he’s lifted a horse off of you and 
made a getaway.” 

Pearsall’s eye fell on Hilda, and the look on her 
face instantly struck him. He stepped across at once 
and put an arm around her shoulders. He did not no¬ 
tice that she had not come to him. 

“Ain’t a thing to be afraid of, Pettie,” he reassured 
her. “These gentlemen think they’re on the trail of 
a feller that’s—” he hesitated appreciably— “er that’s 
got into trouble down in Wild Hoss County. They be¬ 
lieve he’s rode right into the Sorrers and et his pony 
and camped in one of our bedrooms.” 

There was a somewhat sheepish acknowledgment of 
this sally as the men trooped after Pearsall, making a 
search of the rooms, upstairs and down. After that 
Hilda crouched above them on the steps, daylight be¬ 
hind her, her face in shadow, watching in fascinated 
terror while they explored the cellar, carrying lamps 
and candles. But they gave only a negligent glance to 
the tiers of empty cracker boxes which screened the 
door to the passage, as everybody else except Hilda 
had done for years. They abandoned the cellar finally 
and tramped noisily back into the kitchen. 

“You see ’um white man?” the sheriff demanded of 
Sam Kee. “Heap tired—been ridin’ long ways—all 
dusty and dirty—you see ’um?” 

Hilda’s heart stood still. But Sam Kee never 
glanced toward her. 

“I see ’um you,” he grunted, looking Daniels up 
and down, and turned aside to his pie-making. 


150 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


The men grinned. 

“Look-a here, you don’t want to get fresh with me.” 
Daniels’s face was red. “You never can get nothing 
out of a Chink,” he growled. “Scatter out, boys, and 
search the yard.” 

The yard! Hilda shook so that she could hardly 
walk; but she followed them. Sam Kee’s hen-house 
gave up nothing; the shrubbery was inspected without 
profit. They finally trailed down to the spring for a 
drink, preparatory to riding away baffled, if not sat¬ 
isfied. Hilda was so close after them that it brought 
Uncle Hank along, though it had been his thought 
to speed them, somewhat stiffly, from the porch steps. 

Right at the edge where the fugitive had stopped 
to drink Hilda saw footprints. 

“Whose tracks are these?” demanded the sheriff, 
bending to them. “By jinks! They’re mighty like 
those we found where that feller’d camped last night.” 

“They’re mine, I guess,” Hilda spoke out very loud, 
because she was so afraid to speak at all. 

“Come here, Pearsall,” called Daniels. “Listen to 
what this young lady says. She never made these 
tracks.” He glanced curiously at Hilda’s flamboyant 
attire. 

“I’m not a lady!” The small hands flew up to Hil¬ 
da’s breast in a startled gesture. “I’m just a little 
girl. This is a—a play dress.” She looked down at 
the footprints, and the world about her wavered to¬ 
ward the awful calamity, but she went on gallantly: 
“When I’m playing sometimes I wear different clothes 
and different shoes.” 

“Were you down here this morning?” 

“Yes. I was here. I was right where I could see 
this place all morning.” 


THE-BOY-ON-THE-TRAIN 


151 


“Where you could see this place?” The sheriff re¬ 
peated her words, and Hilda’s tortured eye sought the 
woodbine lattice which masked the window of the 
cyclone cellar. They were all watching her. Hank 
came at a stride and took his position beside her. She 
almost wished he hadn’t come. He was sure to look 
at the vine stems and see what she saw. 

Her captive must have opened the shutter; she 
thought she could make out the faint white blur of his 
face inside there. She dragged her gaze away and 
looked dumbly at the men about her. Had she be¬ 
trayed him, after all? Would they take him out and 
kill him, through her fault? 

“Well?” demanded the sheriff, impatiently. “Speak 
up, little girl—and be quick about it, too.” 

But at that Uncle Hank bristled. 

“See here, Daniels, the child may say she’s not a 
lady, yet, but you’ve got to treat her like one. She’s 
Miss Hildegarde Van Brunt; she and her little brother 
are owners of the Three Sorrows ranch, and I’m her 
paid manager.” 

It gave Hilda a strange thrill to hear herself thus 
set forth by Uncle Hank. It was as though she had 
all at once grown years older. The sheriff stepped 
back a bit, and a fumbling hand found and removed 
his hat. 

“Well, Miss Van Brunt,” he said, “I’ve come on 
your ranch kind of sudden; but I had no intention of 
being rough. I was obliged to search—you ain’t no 
objection to that, have you? I didn’t aim to make 
no trouble for you. You’re willing for us to search, 
ain’t you?” 

Hilda looked mutely to Uncle Hank. 

“Sure, she’s willing,” assented the old man. “Hil- 


152 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


da’s not very tall, but she’s a law-abiding citizen. If 
they’s any help she can give you to ketch up with a 
criminal, she’ll do it gladly.” 

Every trusting word was to Hilda a blow. She 
was keeping the presence of the fugitive a secret from 
Uncle Hank; she was going to do that and more. It 
was strange that it could be right—and yet it was. 
She was sorry for the old man, with a great rush of 
compassion which she herself could not understand. 
She caught his arm and clung to it, rubbing her cheek 
against his sleeve—but she never wavered in her de¬ 
termination to tell him nothing. 

“I had to foller my duty, wherever it led,” Daniels 
continued, defensively. 

“Whoo—ee! Whoo—ee!” came a hail from the 
man posted down by the gate. 

They turned to hearken. 

“Come on, boys. Nothing doing there. Billy’s got 
the track of that pony up yonder in the road.” 

Without a word, the sheriff and his men ran to 
their horses, and in a moment’s time there was no re¬ 
minder of their presence or their errand left but a little 
dust. 

Uncle Hank and Hilda stood alone. The old man 
brought his gaze back from following the last depart¬ 
ing rider, and it encountered the queer little figure 
beside him. He took her by the shoulder, looked a 
bit anxiously in her face, and said: 

“I was hunting for you, Pettie, to tell you that I 
may not be home to-night before ten o’clock. Shorty’s 
getting cattle ready for shipment, out in the Spring 
Creek pasture, and like’s not I’ll have to stay at the 
camp there till late. But this pesky business of Sheriff 
Daniels coming up this-a-way—you going to be afraid 
here alone in the house with just old Sam Kee?” 


THE-BOY-ON-THE-TRAIN 


153 


“Oh, no, Uncle Hank—not a bit afraid I” she cried. 

“Don’t feel as if any skulking Door-imps or Barrel- 
tops would be likely to pester you? Reckon mebbe 
Daniels and his men has scared away all that sort of 
cattle—hey?” 

Hilda laughed a little nervously, yet relieved—why 
what a world away was the girl who had been afraid 
of such things! 

“I’ll be all right,” she declared. “I’ve got some¬ 
thing—I’ve got a—” 

“—A story to read,” supplied Hank, out of ample 
experience. And, with a sense of guilt upon her, Hilda 
let the matter go at that. 

And it turned out to be a story after all, only she 
heard it instead of reading it. 


CHAPTER XIV 


SOME ONE RIDES AWAY 

P EARSE came on Sunday. That was great luck. 
Great luck, too, that Uncle Hank should have 
happened to be at the house when the sheriff 
rode in with his posse. He might just as likely have 
been out somewhere on the range; for though he tried 
to keep Sunday on the Three Sorrows, where the busi¬ 
ness of life deals with living creatures—cattle—there 
will be acts of necessity and mercy—the ox to be got¬ 
ten out of the ditch, and that sort of thing. But he’d 
been there, and he’d saved the day, for her and for 
Pearse—though he didn’t know it himself. Then, as 
soon as he’d done so, Hilda did wish he’d go off to 
the Spring Creek pasture and leave her the place clear. 
Yes, she’d heartily wished that—and never noticed 
that it was the first time in all her life that Uncle 
Hank’s presence had, for any reason, been unwelcome. 

She had finally to take her chance, while he was in 
the house, to steal down to Pearse to tell him all about 
the sheriff and set his mind at rest. 

“Well,” he said quietly, “if they’re thrown off the 
track for a little while, that ought to be enough. I 
didn’t do what they think I did. They’ll find the right 
man. It was this way, Hilda: I camped Friday night 
out toward Wild Horse canyon, with three men. I 
didn’t very much like their looks and they weren’t 
giving any names.” 

“How did they look, Pearse? Describe them,” 
Hilda interrupted; and when he’d done so, they were 
154 


SOME ONE RIDES AWAY 


155 


identified in her mind as Fayte Marchbanks’s three 
Romero cousins. Some time during the night Pearse’s 
horse got away. He felt sure now that one of those 
three men must have taken off the hobbles and turned it 
loose, or more probably led it to some near-by place of 
hiding and picketed it on a short rope, for in the morn¬ 
ing they all got out and helped him hunt for it, and 
that hadn’t been the way they acted the night before, 
by any means. Also they talked a great deal about 
feeling to blame for the loss of his mount and wanting 
to help him out. So they gave him a led pony that 
they had with them, explaining that it had a broken 
shoe and he’d better ride easy, turn in at the first ranch 
he came to which had a blacksmith’s outfit and get the 
pony re-shod. He did this, but fortunately before he’d 
told that ranchman his errand, the man offered him 
the information that a sheriff’s posse was out after 
cattle thieves and that, in lifting the cattle, these 
thieves had killed a man and stolen a pony with a 
broken shoe. 

He saw the plot then, but it was too late to turn 
back. He rode all day Saturday, trying to push on to 
the Three Sorrows. Finally, Saturday night, he aban¬ 
doned the pony whose broken shoe left a trail that the 
officers would follow, and in the morning had drifted 
in, across pastures, to the bank by the spring at the 
asequia, when he looked up and saw two black eyes 
staring at him right out of the side of a hill. 

Hilda had brought down needles and thread and 
was doing her best to make a neat job of mending his 
coat while they talked. 

“Where’s Burch?” Pearse asked suddenly, as they 
heard the thin, penetrating echo of Sam Kee’s gong 
from upstairs and Hilda got unwillingly to her feet. 
“He must be a good-sized boy by now. Think maybe 


156 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


you’d better tell him about me? He could help you, 
couldn’t he?” 

“Burch is in Fort Worth with Aunt Val,” said 
Hilda, and was thrillingly glad it was so—that she, 
Hilda, alone, could do anything for the blessed Boy- 
On-The-Train. “Aunt Val’s the aunt I told you about, 
that came out after you people had left Denver. Papa 
sent for her to come to Texas with us. She doesn’t 
like it on the ranch. I must run now. Are you all 
right? I’ll bring you down some supper. Sam Kee 
will give it to me. Sam was splendid with the sheriff.” 

As Hilda had expected, the Chinaman was willing 
enough to give her a good meal for her fugitive, but 
before she got it smuggled down to him she almost 
hated Uncle Hank for being so much in the way. 
There was the later adventure of stealing down with 
some bedding, and assuring Pearse that he’d be free 
of the house as soon as Uncle Hank left. He seemed 
deathly tired and almost careless of what might come 
if he could only rest. 

That was Sunday night. And after Sunday—Mon¬ 
day comes. You can’t help it. It’s just that way. 
They string the days of the week together without 
any regard for people’s feelings—or even the necessi¬ 
ties of the case. How could she go to school on Mon¬ 
day and leave Pearse there hidden in the cyclone cel¬ 
lar? Of course, Sam Kee would never tell; also, the 
Chinaman had furnished food enough to last through 
the day. But it was like parting soul from body to 
ride away from the Three Sorrows that morning, to 
turn her back on what might chance, to give up hours 
with her fugitive that might have been hers. 

At school, Miss Belle found she had a strange Hilda 
in her classes. The banner pupil was inattentive; no 


SOME ONE RIDES AWAY 


157 


statement seemed to get through to that mind, which 
her teacher knew to be usually so quick. A book be¬ 
fore her, motionless, apparently scarcely breathing, 
Hilda sat at her desk, the image of a very studious 
little girl. But she did not use the slate and pencil 
that lay under her hand; she did not see the printed 
lines before her. What if the ranch house at the 
Three Sorrows should burn down while she was away? 
It was a stone house—but couldn’t stone houses burn? 
The things in them could, anyhow. What if Sam Kee 
fell suddenly ill and, in his extremity, “confessed all” 
to Uncle Hank? What if she, Hilda, were thrown 
from her pony on the* way home and broke a leg—no, 
turned an ankle—that was more like the girls in stories 
—well, what if she turned an ankle and lay helpless 
and couldn’t get down to see after Pearse? What 
would become of him? 

Her mind flew wildly to her aunt. If Miss Val had 
been at home would she have dared to trust her with 
Pearse’s secret? Aunt Val hadn’t met Mr. and Mrs. 
Masters, but they were her sort of people; she would 
think that a boy brought up as Pearse had been 
couldn’t be a cattle thief. Well—Uncle Hank would 
think so too if he knew Pearse. But there' was that 
way Pearse had looked when he heard Uncle Hank’s 
name. She tried to forget it. It was too bad when 
people you were so fond of wouldn’t like each other. 

And of course it had to be that afternoon that vis¬ 
itors came to the school. It was only Mrs. Capadine 
and the new Capadine foreman’s wife; but Miss Belle 
wanted to show off the school, so she called on Hilda 
Van Brunt, as she always did at such times. And 
Hilda disgraced herself. Worse—she disgraced Miss 
Belle and the school. Three times she said “I don’t 


158 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


know,” and one of those times the question was such 
that any baby would have known the answer. Miss 
Belle was asking it that way to make it easy. 

As a last resort Hilda’s teacher called on her to 
recite—“speak a piece” they called it when they men¬ 
tioned it on the playground. You’d think that was the 
thing she could do in her sleep. She loved Friday 
afternoons because of the speaking. She now, stand¬ 
ing in front of them all, dashed nervously into: 

“The stag at eve had drunk his fill—” 

Then, suddenly, her mind jumped three miles and 
a half. What was Pearse doing? Had they found 
him? She came back, with a jerk, to the schoolroom, 
looked down at the faces of her schoolmates as they 
sat at their desks, arms folded, listening; at the plump, 
expectant ladies in the chairs. Then she repeated her 
statement about the stag. Three times she said it; 
that stag, if he was full the first time, must have been 
quite dangerously filled when she got to the next line—* 

“As danced the Moon on Monan’s rill.” 

Well, even then it would have been all right; she 
might have gone on from there. But there was a 
snicker all over the room, and she realized that she 
had said “Ronan’s mill.” Even the visiting ladies 
were laughing at her. She burst into tears and sat 
down, hiding her face in her arms on the desk top. 
She heard Miss Belle—Miss Belle, angry and morti¬ 
fied—telling her that she would have to stay after 
school! 

Nothing to do about that. She just sat with her 
head on her desk and cried and cried. The company 


SOME ONE RIDES AWAY 


159 


left. The other scholars all filed out—Miss Belle was 
letting them go a little early—Hilda heard them get¬ 
ting on their ponies, riding away. Then Miss Belle 
came and sat down in the seat beside her and put her 
arm around her, saying, more kindly: 

“What’s the matter, Hilda? You’re not a bit like 
yourself to-day.” 

“Oh, Miss Belle,” Hilda’s face, all swollen with 
tears, came up; she laid hold of the ruffle on Miss 
Belle’s shoulder with shaking fingers; “oh, Miss Belle 
—let me go home. I—I’ll do anything for you—if 
you’ll only let me go home—now.” 

“Why, Hilda,” the teacher was only a big girl her¬ 
self, “I believe you’re sick. Do you feel bad? Is that 
it?” 

“I feel awful,” choked Hilda, and didn’t mean to 
be untruthful; but she knew afterwards how Miss Belle 
understood that. “If you’ll just let me go home, Miss 
Belle—it’ll be all right. Let me go, please.” 

“In a minute.” Miss Belle got up and hurried to 
her desk and began writing something. She came 
back, folding it, asking anxiously, “Do you think you 
can stand the ride home, Hilda? I hate to send you 
alone. Want me to go with you? I will, if you need 
me. It’s out of my way, and I’ve written to Mr. 
Pearsall—but if you think you need me—” , 

“Oh, no, Miss Belle. I’m all right.” Hilda was on 
her feet, reaching for the note for Uncle Hank. 
“Yes’m, I can ride home all right. Oh—thank you, 
Miss Belle!” 

“Well,” the teacher stood in the door watching the 
streaking figure of a little girl on a pony vanishing 
down the trail toward the Three Sorrows, “well—if 
that was any one else but Hilda Van Brunt I’d say she 
was putting it all on to get sent home. Maybe I 


160 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


needn’t have said three days—but Mr. Pearsall will 
know when he sees her.” 

Oh, the confidence of the grown-up world that the 
youngsters they care for and look after are so easily 
understood! Hank, peering over his spectacles from 
Miss Belle’s little note, in which she said she found 
Hilda nervous and overexcitable, was afraid she 
wasn’t well, and thought maybe she’d better be kept 
home from school for two or three days’ rest, saw be¬ 
fore him a Hilda whose eyes were big and almost 
wildly bright, whose cheeks flamed with unusual color. 
He laid two fingers against the hot curve of one. 

‘‘Feverish, Pettie?” he suggested. 

“Aunt Val would say I had a temperature.” Hilda 
laughed a little excitedly. She hadn’t had to tell any 
story. All she needed to do was to keep still and let 
them fool themselves. She wouldn’t have done it for 
her own sake—but for her fugitive down there in the 
cyclone cellar anything was fair. 

For five days Hilda stayed at home from school; 
and the boy, Pearse Masters, lay hid in the cyclone 
cellar. Hilda heard through the boys that Sheriff Dan¬ 
iels was still searching for him. It seemed the trap 
the Romero boys—if it was they—had laid with that 
broken-shoed pony still deceived the officers of the 
law. And Hilda’s behavior these days was queer 
enough to make Uncle Hank feel that she needed to 
be at home rather than in school. Most of the time 
when she was upstairs her heart was in her mouth, as 
the saying is, or anyhow so close to her mouth that 
it jumped right into it if some one spoke suddenly to 
her. The feeding of her captive, planning for his 
comfort, scouting for his safety, kept her at a nervous 
tension. 

Pearse wasn’t nervous; he stood being cooped up in 


SOME ONE RIDES AWAY 


161 


that little dark hole all day wonderfully. Whenever 
the coast was clear, and all the men off the place, she 
hurried down to him. She had scoured the office for 
checker and chess board, packs of Authors, a puzzle 
game or two that ought to be lying about somewhere. 
But mostly she and Pearse would just talk. To the 
girl of thirteen, this Boy-On-The-Train was, of course, 
different from the one she remembered as so wonder¬ 
ful, from the figure that had lived in her recollection 
all those years, having added to him a great many 
things that hardly belonged to a real, flesh-and-blood 
boy. He was a more experienced person than Hilda 
might have expected; he was as tall as a man, and bet¬ 
ter-looking, Hilda decided, than any one she had ever 
seen. He had an awfully interesting disposition; he 
could be merry and full of fun—but as hard as flint, 
too. He got that hard look in his eyes whenever she 
mentioned Uncle Hank. Well, then, the best way was 
not to talk about Uncle Hank to him at all. So they 
played checkers and told stories, and Pearse sent her 
upstairs for books she’d told him were on the shelves 
up there, but she hadn’t thought she’d like. And he 
read aloud to her from some of them—and, oh, she 
did love them! 

But the one thing that was always right between 
Hilda and Pearse was their feeling for this beautiful 
plains country of the West. They both loved it! Like 
her, Pearse would rather ride than anything in the 
world. She was crazy to have him see the Three Sor¬ 
rows in daylight; for you couldn’t get any idea of 
things at night, which was the only time he had to get 
out and move about; and, of course, he couldn’t have 
got any real view of the place that day he came in over 
it, afoot, half starved, parched with thirst, thinking 
only of some place to hide. 


162 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Finally, she did get Sam Kee to keep watch, when 
everybody else was out of the way, and she took Pearse 
out through the front door, all the way down the box- 
elder avenue to the trail, back again, around by way 
of the asequia, past the spring and the kitchen garden, 
to the corrals and stables, and out into the home pas¬ 
ture, where some of the best horses were. 

He praised it all, as she had been so eager to hear 
him do. And Hilda had been anxious, without saying 
a word of the sort, to show him how well Uncle Hank 
managed and took care of them all. She was the more 
urgent about this, since she felt, down deep in her 
heart, that she didn’t actually want Pearse to meet 
Uncle Hank—this time. He’d come back some day, 
when all the tangles had been straightened out, and 
then—it was breathless, exciting to have him all her 
own guest, her responsibility—but, oh, she loved it! 

And the long talks in the cyclone cellar, when he 
told her how he came to be adrift here in the western 
cattle country, heading for a job over on a New Mexico 
ranch—they were like chapters out of a story—a much 
more fascinating story than any in the books. 

When he and Hilda saw each other last, he’d been 
a rich man’s son, just back from Europe, where he had 
been traveling with his parents. Now both Mr. and 
Mrs. Masters were dead. 

“They weren’t my real parents, you know, Hilda,” 
he explained. “I was only an adopted son.” 

Hilda’s heart gave a little bound; the wandering 
heir—the prince in disguise—was an adopted son. 
Pearse was going on: 

“They had other children—grown and married. 
We’d traveled around a lot, in Italy and Switzerland. 
My tutor went with us. We lived in England a while, 
and a while in Italy; and one whole summer in Ire- 


SOME ONE RIDES AWAY 


163 


land; and in those places I went to school. Gee!” 
she heard a little gulp, “I was happy then. But Father 
got called home on some important business, and the 
next day after we landed in New York he was killed— 
in a street-car accident.” 

“Papa was killed in a roundup,” murmured Hilda. 

“Taken suddenly that way,” Pearse went on, “his 
business was left all at loose ends. Mother went to 
live with her married daughter. I felt I couldn’t go 
there—except to see her. They didn’t like me. Well 
—I guess they hated me.” 

“Why would they?” Hilda bristled. 

“Natural enough,” said Pearse easily. “I suppose 
they’d never wanted Father and Mother to adopt me 
—a poor little rat running away from an uncle that 
beat him.” 

He laughed when he said that, but Hilda’s eyes 
were full of tears. 

“Mother was sick when she went to Nelly’s house,” 
he went on. “She died within the month. I felt then 
that there wasn’t anything in the East for me. I be¬ 
long to the West, Hilda—same as you do. Father had 
owned a share in that cattle company in New Mexico. 
He always said that he intended to leave it to me—or 
give it to me—but now I couldn’t find out a thing 
about how it was left. Nelly’s husband and George 
had everything in their hands. Anyhow, I felt sure 
that Father’s name would get me a job on the J’l C, if 
I could get to them. I sold my watch and my books 
and some other things to get the railroad fare, de¬ 
pending on my own work to make good with the com¬ 
pany, once I had the job. Had a fine opinion of my¬ 
self, didn’t I?—a fellow that would let himself be 
taken in by such a bunch as the three I camped with 
that night, and get set afoot on the bald plain, with 


164 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


the sheriff after him—have to sneak in to a little girl 
like you for help! Hilda, you’re a lot better at cattle- 
country business than I am.” 

“I’m not, Pearse. I just know the ways out here a 
little better. And I don’t know them so very well. 
Maybe, after all, you’ll let me go to Uncle Hank and 
ask—” 

She stopped there. The blue eyes that had been 
laughing were suddenly full of anxiety; the voice, too, 
was anxious as Pearse said: 

“You’ve been awfully good to me, Hilda—a regu¬ 
lar brick in every way. Now you won’t go and spoil 
it all by—” He broke off, frowning. Hilda stared at 
him apprehensively. Finally, he said: 

“I’ll make a bargain with you; no use pretending 
that I like the man you call Uncle Hank, or that I en¬ 
joy the idea of meeting him again. But I will some 
time. I’ll come back some time when I can walk up 
the front steps. I’d never have sneaked in here to hide 
if I’d known he was manager of the ranch; but as I 
have done so, and found you again, Hilda, and we’re 
such good friends—I’ll come back. Now let’s forget 
it.” 

Words wouldn’t come. Hilda felt sure that if she’d 
tried to make them, tears would, instead. She just 
shook her head silently. That might have meant any¬ 
thing. Pearse seemed to think that it meant she 
agreed to what he said. 

“All right;” the gruffness and rasp were out of his 
voice now. “Let’s just talk about ourselves, then. 
When I get over to New Mexico I’ll write back to you. 
You and I aren’t going to quarrel because of any one 
else—are we? We’ll always be great friends.” 

“Oh, always—always!” That was what Hilda said, 
with all her heart—and wondered at herself a little for 


SOME ONE RIDES AWAY 165 

saying it. How could she be friends with one that 
wasn’t friends with Uncle Hank? Yet she must be— 
she must. And maybe, some day, when she and Pearse 
had been good friends for a long while, she’d get him 
to think differently about Hank—she’d be the peace¬ 
maker between them. Anyhow, there wasn’t much 
time now—she couldn’t waste any of it arguing with 
herself. 

She got Shorty—Shorty was close-mouthed, and he 
seldom asked questions—to shoe her pony Sunday on 
his front feet, and the night upon which they had 
agreed that Pearse must get away she used the utmost 
of her influence with Sam Kee to get the necessary 
provision of food. She had a little money—her small 
hoard toward the joys of Christmas. It was eleven 
o’clock when she was able at last to slip down cellar 
and bring back her guest. They had a night of white 
moonlight for the enterprise, such a night as only the 
high plains country ever sees. It appeared that every 
object was as clearly visible as by day, yet all was 
subtly changed, flooded with mysterious beauty. 

The low, spreading ranch-house silently brooded 
its sleepers; but cottonwood leaves whispered loud 
in a light night breeze above the little stream that 
flashed its myriads of sparkles back to the moon. The 
Willow Nixies over by the tank were dimly visible, 
bowing down as at some magic affair of their own. 
Suddenly, upon the lonely stillness, a mocking bird 
gave voice. Up from deep, deep, ancient wells that 
song bubbled, liquid, divine. The boy stood a moment 
and hearkened, Hilda watching, breathless, furtive. 
He made an impatient gesture and moved on. With¬ 
out a word, the Sunday horse was led out from where 
Hilda had tied him. She went to a peg on which hung 
a handsome saddle, bridle and saddlecloth. 


166 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“They were papa’s,” she said. 

“All right;” Pearse spoke with some difficulty. In 
silence he bridled the pony, saddled him and made the 
bundle of provisions fast by means of the long tie- 
strings. “I’ll take them, Hilda. I’ve got to. But I’ll 
send them back as soon as I can.” 

“Oh, no—” Hilda was beginning, but he interrupted 
her: 

“What’ll you say to Mr.—• What’ll you say to 
your Uncle Hank?” 

She trembled a little at that, but answered with rea¬ 
sonable steadiness: 

“I think I’ll ask him not to make me tell him any¬ 
thing about it. I never have asked Uncle Hank that, 
but he’ll do it for me. Here—you must have this.” 

Her little brown hand was putting some coins into 
his, and he caught the fingers and closed them, distress, 
reluctance, in look and action. 

“I hate to take your money,” he broke out. 

Hilda’s face raised to his, white in the moonlight, 
seemed more than ever all eyes, as they slowly filled 
with tears. The many-hued, gleaming cloak of ro¬ 
mance was slipping from her; she began to feel the 
chill of naked realities. In vain she strove to have it 
that she was arming her prince for the fray, defending 
her fugitive, making good his escape; she could not 
think one thought or draw one breath as Kate Barlass, 
as Flora MacDonald, or any of* the rest of that de¬ 
voted throng. She was just herself—her own small, 
lonely self—out behind the corral with Pearse, un¬ 
known to all the sleeping household; and it was the 
last time she would be there with him. He was going 
away from her. A little money—what did it matter, 
one way or the other? 

“Oh, you must take it—you must!” she protested, 


SOME ONE RIDES AWAY 


167 


the choke of rising emotion in her tone. “I wish it 
was more. There’s only two dollars and thirty-five 
cents.” 

His voice failed huskily. He stood looking at her 
a moment, as though he would have said more; then, 
without a word, shook his head, turned, and his foot 
was in the stirrup. The realization that this was 
good-by reached its climax in Hilda’s heart. He was 
really going away. Like a big, black, engulfing wave 
rolled over her the thought of the time coming when 
there would be no Pearse to talk to or read with, to 
feed or care for; no delicious hiding and intriguing en¬ 
terprises—nothing but the round of ranch and school 
life. Blindly, she caught at his sleeve. 

“Oh, don’t! Don’t go! Come back in the house.” 

A whirlwind of sobs shook the slim figure, and 
Pearse hastily, awkwardly, put his arm about her to 
steady her. 

“Let’s tell Uncle Hank!” she gasped. “He’ll ex¬ 
plain to the sheriff and those men. He can. You’d 
better stay here, Pearse.” 

She looked up into his face in the dimness, and 
knew, before he spoke, that he was going to refuse. 

“Hilda—I can’t. If I’d known he was manager 
here, I’d never have come in the first place. I told you 
that. If ever I see you again— Oh, say, Hilda! don’t 
cry so. I just can’t stand to see you feel so badly.” 

She dried her eyes with piteous eagerness and 
strangled the sobs that still shook her. 

“Goo-good-by, Pearse. Good-by—and good luck,” 
she achieved without a break. “You’ve got it all 
clear in your mind about the trail?” 

“All clear. Good-by,” answered the boy hoarsely. 
And, not venturing another look at her, he rode away. 


CHAPTER XV 


NO QUESTIONS ASKED 

H ILDA stood there, chilled and shivering, and 
listened to the sound of his horse’s hoofs, cau¬ 
tious and slow at first, breaking into a canter 
further away and dying out in the night air. He was 
gone, leaving her utterly bereft. For, in the presence 
of the living Pearse himself The Boy-On-The-Train 
had at once shrunk and faded to a vain shadow—oh, 
no, she could never call that up again. She had lost 
them both. 

She turned stumblingly toward the house. Halfway 
there, blinded by her tears, she walked almost into 
Uncle Hank! 

“Pettie!” he said. “Why, Pettie—it’s you?” . 

With the strangest movement, a perfect anguish of 
reluctance, the child who flew to meet him whenever 
she saw him coming, who ran to him with all her 
troubles and perplexities, approached. The poor lit¬ 
tle feet lagged at every step. Plainly they would 
rather have turned and fled. The eyes beseeched, 
apologized. The trembling hands went out and made 
movements of dumb entreaty. For one instant he was 
confused by memory of her fear of the sheriff; then, 
like a knife in his heart, came the clear knowledge that 
she was afraid—of him! For some reason beyond his 
understanding, she did not want to come to him. Yet 
come she did, and the man, moved, as it seemed to 
him, beyond the occasion, gathered her up in his arms, 
168 


169 


NO QUESTIONS ASKED 

just as he had been used to do when she was six years 
old and went to sleep on his breast. He carried her in 
to the living-room, sat down on the couch there and, 
loosening his arm a bit so that he might look in her 
face, said: 

“Pettie, I was scared about you, honey. Don’t you 
want to tell Uncle Hank? Can’t Uncle Hank help 
you?” 

Hilda was resolute not to cry. She straightened up 
in the circle of his arm and lifted to him brimming 
eyes. 

“Uncle Hank,” she began desperately, “Father’s 
dead—he’s gone.” 

“Yes. Why, yes, dear,” said Hank gravely. “He’s 
been gone five year. We have to get over it when 
our folks die and leave us. The world wouldn’t get 
on without we did.” 

“I know. It isn’t— What I mean is that, now 
he’s gone, we’re all there is left of him. We’ve got 
to do what he would if he was here—isn’t that so?” 

“That’s so.” 

“Well—he always helped people that were in trou¬ 
ble, didn’t he?” 

“He sure did, Pettie. Your pa was as good as 
gold. He was the dearest father a little girl ever had. 
What he done when he was here, and what he would 
do if he was here now, would always be right for you 
to pattern by.” 

Hank was puzzled on some points, but very clear as 
to what he wanted Hilda to understand on this. He 
was glad to see that his words were a relief to her. 

“Then” (she was feeling her way, plainly with some 
secret difficulty in explaining herself), “if somebody 
came to you or me in trouble—in very dreadful trou¬ 
ble—some one that had been trying to get to father—- 


170 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


some one that depended on him—that didn’t know he 
was dead and couldn’t help him—” 

The big, black eyes, so like Charley’s own, held 
steadfastly to Uncle Hank’s attentive glance; they 
never wavered, till he bent down and laid his cheek 
upon her curls. 

“You needn’t say another word, Pettie—nary an¬ 
other word. You’ve got just as good a right to keep 
your affairs to yourself as I’ve got, or as any other 
man’s got. If I can help you—if you want anything 
from Uncle Hank—just tell me so. Let me know 
what it is.” 

“It’s awful good of you, Uncle Hank,” said Hilda. 
She debated with herself a moment in silence, then took 
it with a brave rush. “You mustn’t ask me where the 
Sunday pony’s gone, nor papa’s saddle and bridle.” 

Hank plainly was startled, but he got his breath 
and came back gallantly with: 

“I won’t, honey. By the holy poker—this is your 
own business! I don’t see why it ain’t—just as much 
as if you was a man a hundred and thirteen years old, 
instead of a little girl only thirteen.” 

Hilda had all along assured herself, almost fever¬ 
ishly, that Uncle Hank would understand; but now, 
climbing the stairs to bed, looking back over her shoul¬ 
der to where he sat, the sense of his forbearance was 
like a pang in her heart. She’d done something she 
dared not tell Uncle Hank. She’d deceived him. And 
she had done it for a boy who didn’t like Uncle Hank 
—who, for some strange, unaccountable reason seemed 
almost to hate him! Well, that had to be. But now 
she would make up to him for it. Never again—not 
on any other subject, anyhow—would she keep any¬ 
thing back from him. But Pearse—she knew if Pearse 


NO QUESTIONS ASKED 171 

needed it she would again deceive the old man. It 
was very strange and puzzling; it hurt her. 

She fell asleep, finally, then waked to the startling 
thought-that she’d put Uncle Hank second. He’d al¬ 
ways been first. Well—she couldn’t help that, either. 


CHAPTER XVI 

‘ ‘TWEN-TY—SEV-EN—H UN-DRED—CAT-TLE !’ ’ 


S HERIFF DANIELS clung resolutely to the trail 
of that broken-shoed pony. He discovered, fin¬ 
ally, who the man was that had ridden it away 
from the ranch where it was stolen. The thief was 
traced into old Mexico, then into a little place in Ari¬ 
zona, brought back from there, tried and convicted of 
that and of the killing. Every one supposed that it 
was he who had been at the Three Sorrows that day. 
His trial brought out the fact that the Romero brothers 
were the others in the affair. They disappeared from 
Lame Jones County and stayed away. 

The matter was cleared up now; Pearse Masters 
could have come back openly now, if he’d wanted to. 
But he didn’t—he didn’t even write. A whole year 
rolled round, and Hilda had heard nothing from him 
or of her Sunday pony. Yet in the cattle country, 
where the distances were so great, people sometimes 
borrowed a horse and kept it for more than a year, 
waiting for the time when it would be convenient to 
return it by some friend traveling in the necessary di¬ 
rection. 

Of course, feeling as he did about Uncle Hank, 
Pearse himself would never ride up to the Three Sor¬ 
rows leading Sunday. Yet, in her own mind, Hilda 
never gave up the hope that some time she would find a 
way to bring the two together and make them friends. 
Nobody, she felt sure, could really know Uncle Hank 
and not love and trust him. 

172 


TWEN-TY—SEV-EN—HUN-DRED—CAT-TLE !” 173 


As time went on, and there was no Pearse and no 
word from him, and here was Uncle Hank, more than 
ever part of everything good and comfortable, Hilda 
slipped into a position of even greater confidence with 
him. It was as though she tried to make up to him 
for having liked—for still so very much liking— 
a person who thought badly of him. Those long talks 
on the doorstone in the evening would have surprised 
some people. Hank laid all his plans and ideas be¬ 
fore the slim girl as he never would have thought of 
doing before her father. Hilda was going to be a 
ranchwoman. The Sorrows would belong to her and 
to her brother. She loved it all; she had the feeling 
for it; and the old man believed that a sense of re¬ 
sponsibility could only come with a knowledge of what 
the responsibilities were. 

So, in March of the year when Hilda was fourteen, 
she knew as well as Hank did what the financial situa¬ 
tion was on the ranch, and why it had come to a point 
where her guardian was almost at his wit’s end to go 
on. He had saved everywhere he could, doing with 
less help than he needed always, getting more out of 
his men by good treatment, making up the lack by 
extra work of his own, buying supplies with careful 
judgment, hesitating over every expense except those 
that Miss Valeria demanded—no use hesitating with 
Aunt Val; she always got what she wanted in the end. 
But the Sorrows had never been able to run enough 
cows, as the cattle country phrased it. Hank had 
helped out wherever he could by taking other men’s 
stock to pasture, “on the shares,” or “for the third 
calf.” He had paid off the smaller mortgage'and kept 
up the interest on the larger one. 

He stood one afternoon near the side door of the 
ranch house, gazing out across the fields of the Sor- 


174 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


rows, green as an emerald and sweet with the evening 
song of meadow larks. Hilda came up to him, slipped 
her hand into his and looked up into his face as 
though she had said, “What is it, Uncle Hank?” 

“Pasture for ten thousand cattle,” he sighed, “and 
I reckon we’re a-doing well if we can count up twenty- 
eight hundred in all. Well, honey, we’ll make out 
somehow—we always have made out so far—but I 
wish the Lord would show me how.” 

A big, six-mule freight wagon was just pulling up 
at the lower gate. They watched with interest while 
Slew-foot Crosby, the freighter, climbed down from 
the driver’s seat and started toward the house. When 
Slew caught sight of the two he raised a letter in his 
hand and shook it high above his head. 

“Howdy, Hilda. Hey, Pearsall; I brought this out 
from Dawn for you!” he shouted. 

“Hmm,” said Hank, “who’d be writing to me? 
Miss Valeria’s home, and Burch.” 

Drawing up, Crosby handed him the envelope and 
waited to share any interest that might be in its con¬ 
tents. 

Pearsall turned the letter over curiously a time or 
two. 

“Looks like I ought to know that there handwrit¬ 
ing,” he meditated, scratching one ear reflectively. 
“Now, who in time is it makes them kind of tails to 
the—? Hm-mm. El Capitan,” he squinted at the 
postmark. “Huh—El Capitan. Well, I don’t know 
as—” 

“Why don’t you open it?” suggested Hilda, and 
Crosby winked at her and added: 

“Yes, rip ’er up and have a look at the inside.” 

Without further ado, Hank inserted his thumb and 
“ripped her up.” Carefully he drew forth and un- 


“TWEN-TY—SEV-EN—HUN-DRED—CAT-TLE!” 175 

folded a soiled, dog-eared sheet of paper and stood 
studying it for some moments in silence, Hilda watch¬ 
ing, Slew shifting from one foot to the other. Gradu¬ 
ally the manager’s face changed, losing its anxious 
lines, taking on a half-surprised, half-incredulous ex¬ 
pression. He looked out again over the green levels. 

“Lord! Lord!” he whispered. “Why, this almost 
scares me.” 

“What, Uncle Hank? What?” demanded Hilda, 
and the patient Crosby thanked her with a glance. 

“All right, Pettie. Ye see, Slew, this here’s from 
my old pardner, Tracey Jacox, that I used to run cattle 
with down yonder on the Pecos. He—Trace, he’s had 
some difficulty there at Capitan. He’s wrote for me 
to come and get his bunch of cattle and keep ’em— 
that is, till he—” 

“Till he gets out,” supplied Crosby, with prompt 
intelligence. 

“Well, yes—till he gets out,” assented the other 
mildly. 

Crosby’s eyes followed Pearsall’s across the tre¬ 
mendous sweep of green pastures. He knew well what 
was in the manager’s mind. 

“Comes in mighty good. I brought you something 
worth while this time, didn’t I? Well, so long! I 
got to pull my freight.” 

He walked away down the long line of box elders 
to his patient mules. Left behind, the old man stood 
murmuring over and over: “Twen-ty—sev-en—hun¬ 
dred—cat-tie! Twen-ty—sev-en—hun-dred! Why, 
Pettie, it looks like a hand stretched right down to a 
drowning man. For, as sure as my name’s Pearsall, I 
didn’t know which-away to turn this spring.” 

“And we’re to keep the cattle how long, Uncle 
Hank?” 


176 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


The old man took out the penciled scrawl, and she 
read with him: 


El Capitan, Sandoval Co., Texas, 
March 28, 18—. 

Mr. dere Hank Pearsall, 

Ime in a little trubble and I write to know if you are thare 
at the Sorers if so would like to have you come imedietly and 
git my bunch of catel. Ime in a little trubble. he was a 
poplar man and the jury was pretty strong for hanging but 
my lawyer was a good one and I will be glad if you can come 
imedietly. Thare is 2700 of the catel most all grade Here- 
fords and you can keep them on the Sorers thare till I get out 
that will be four years and I know Hank you will do right 
by me. my lawyer is pade and I want to see the catel in your 
Hands before I go and I will be glad to see you imedietly the 
sooner the better. 

Your old pardner, 

Tracey Jacox. 

“Reckless feller!” muttered Hank, and shook his 
head. “I always told him he’d shoot up the wrong 
man some time.” 

He put the letter carefully back into his pocket, and 
they went to the house together. 

That evening it was known at headquarters, and by 
the next morning it had flown all over the Sorrows that 
the boss was going to take an outfit down the trail to 
Sandoval County and bring home the herd. 

“We’ll have to have, at the very least, twelve riders 
and a horse wrangler,” he said. “I’ll be cook and 
foreman both—that’s fourteen men in all. Four of 
us’ll go from here, and I’ll hire ten men in Sandoval. 
It’ll take a hundred and twenty-five horses to handle 
that trail herd—and I’ve got ’em! Ain’t I glad now I 
kept all the ponies! It sure took nerve to do it. I’ll 


TWEN-TY—SEV-EN—HUN-DRED—CAT-TLE !'* 177 


not have to buy a horse—not one. I feel like patting 
myself on the head for my smartness. Pettie, I’ll give 
you that job of patting. You might start on it right 
away.” 

“How long will you be gone, Uncle Hank?” Hilda 
asked, in a voice whose utterance seemed somehow to 
displace very little ordinary atmosphere. 

“Well, it won’t take more’n four or five days to get 
there—flying light. Then there’s the counting, road¬ 
branding, signing up contracts, hiring the new hands 
and getting supplies—I reckon it’ll take nearly two 
weeks to make the trip home with the herd. Say, jest 
about three weeks in all, Pettie.” 

“Oh—three weeks!” whispered Hilda, and he 
looked at her curiously, but said nothing more. 

Such an outburst of vitality the ranch had not known 
for years. There was an inspiring rush of prepara¬ 
tion, a great looking to stirrup leathers, re-cinching of 
saddles, mending and overhauling of equipment, and 
almost more skylarking and horse-play. Out at the 
corrals, Shorty and two other boys who were to make 
the trip, stole up behind one another and knocked each 
other sprawling by way of a delicate intimation that 
the situation was humorous. They scuflled and rolled 
over and over like bear cubs, hammering one another 
joyously. All day, while working furiously, they 
turned again and again from their occupation to 
fight at the trembling of an eyelash. Shorty came 
wheezing out of one of these encounters with a black 
eye and bleeding knuckles, the shirt on his back torn 
to strips. But his only complaint was: 

“Darn you, Buster—this is the best shirt I got,” 
with the husky threat, added, “I’ll wear you to a fraz¬ 
zle—when I get my breath.” 

Burch and Miss Valeria were the only ones who 


178 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


seemed to be out of it all. The little lady looked up 
mildly once or twice at the extra amount of noise and 
bustle going on about her, then relaxed into her book 
or the endless piece of Battenburg which never seemed 
to get itself finished under her slim, aristocratic white 
hands. Burch was a silent boy, who cared enough 
about his books to have made a very good student and 
whose deportment would always have been rated one 
hundred if he hadn’t had such a queer way of taking 
an idea into his head, saying nothing about it, and put¬ 
ting it into execution—whatever it was—without any 
one’s permission. 

There was the time when the school clock got out 
of order, and Burch took it out of its case to oil it. 
Miss Belle caught him with it just when he dipped it in 
a bath of kerosene. He wouldn’t say he was sorry. It 
went on all morning till the young teacher said she 
was going to whip him—and expel him from school. 
Even that didn’t move Burch to say anything but: 

“I wish you’d let me oil the clock now and put it 
back in the case and put the hands on. It’ll run all 
right now.” 

But Miss Belle wouldn’t even do that, and Hilda, 
crazy with anxiety, had ridden after Uncle Hank, beg¬ 
ging him to come quick and not to let Aunt Val know. 
She’d been locked out of the school room. She thought 
Miss Belle was in there whipping Burchie. Miss Belle 
wouldn’t listen to her when she told her he was always 
learning about machinery; and maybe he really could 
fix the clock. 

She and Uncle Hank had come into the school room 
to find a boy that had been whipped, a clock that was 
ticking away in good order—and a teacher who was 
hysterical. 

“He ought to have told me that the watchmaker 


TWEN-TY—SEV-EN—HUN-DRED—CAT-TLE!” 179 


there in Fort Worth had showed him what to do— 
let him help him at such things,” she said. 

Uncle Hank agreed to that, but when they were 
climbing on their ponies to leave, Burch said: 

“Aw—people talk too much. Anyhow, she didn’t 
ask me if any one had taught me how to fix a clock. I 
told her I could do it. After she whipped me, she 
cried and let me show her. She doesn’t hit very hard. 
It didn’t hurt very much.” 

“And you see, Burch,” Uncle Hank put in, “you 
shouldn’t never have touched the clock without per¬ 
mission. Long as you done that, I’m glad to see you 
are willing to take a licking for it.” 

This was Hilda’s brother, very dear to her, yet car¬ 
ing for almost none of the things she cared for. He 
wasn’t interested in ponies—because they were live 
creatures, not machines. 

“But you’re going to live on a ranch when you grow 
up,” Hilda argued. 

“No, I’m not. I think I’ll be an engineer of some 
kind. I’d like building bridges. You can stay here 
and be the ranchman.” 

And so it was only Hilda who, drifting about the 
house or garden, lingering at the corral, like a little 
woebegone shadow, took no part in the joy. She fol¬ 
lowed Hank as though she could not let him from her 
sight, hastening to bring what he needed before he 
asked for it, stooping to pick up a thing he dropped, 
anticipating his wish with a low-spoken word. He was 
used to having Hilda hang about him—but not this 
Hilda. Also she was getting to be of a size and age 
when she very commonly had some more or less im¬ 
portant concerns of her own which took her apologeti¬ 
cally from him at intervals. Now, whatever he was 
doing, he knew she was there; he was aware of just 


180 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


the look he would meet in those dark eyes if he 
glanced up. If the old man wheeled suddenly and 
faced it, this haunter of his trail would turn aside has¬ 
tily and at once be occupied with other business. But 
Hank knew that he was watched. 

The start was to be made in the morning. After 
supper Hilda sat down on the side-door stone, where 
so many of her interviews with Uncle Hank took 
place, waiting for him and trying hard not to weep. 
He came out noisily, man-fashion, calling back some 
last remark over his shoulder to Shorty O’Meara, and 
dropping suddenly beside her with a great sigh, min¬ 
gled of weariness, relief, content. 

“Well, it was short notice, but we’re sure ready, and 
we’re ready good. Pettie,”—he spoke aloud and 
cheerfully—“I don’t know as I ever in my life looked 
forward to anything with more pleasure than I do to 
going down to El Capitan and bringing back them 
cows.” 

Slowly it was borne in upon him that he was getting 
no response. In the silence came a choking sound. 
There was no need of words. He sat awhile, mute. 
It d occur to him that he might say, “You don’t want 
to go—a little lady like you—on a long, hard, lone¬ 
some, messy trip with nobody but a lot of rough boys 
that can’t talk a lick of grammar.” But the useless¬ 
ness of it, as well as the hollow insincerity, held him 
silent. The old man acted a mother’s part by his 
orphans, but he possessed none of the age-honored 
mothers’ tricks. Now he got up suddenly and went 
into the house, where Miss Valeria sat reading, and 
blurted out to that lady: 

“I reckon I’m the most forsaken old fool that ever 
trod shoe-leather. But I can’t stand it any longer.. 
Pettie’ll have to go with me down the trail.” 


TWEN-TY—SEV-EN—HUN-DRED—CAT-TLE!” 181 


Following close behind, as she had been following 
all day, Hilda heard those last words. She dared not 
explode into a joyous whoop, for her aunt’s bewildered 
face promised resistance. Miss Van Brunt took off 
her delicate, gold-rimmed glasses nervously and rubbed 
her eyes, as though, perhaps, looked at without their 
medium, Hank might change his mind. 

“I—why, really, Mr. Pearsall,” she began, with her 
small bustle of feminine authority, “you are very kind 
to think of bothering yourself with the child. If it 
were Burch, now—but I’m afraid it’s rather a long 
trip for a little girl—and—” 

“Aw, let her go,” mumbled Burch, looking up from 
the table, where he was busy over a book and some 
diagrams. “I don’t want to. It suits her. She likes 
it.” 

“—and certainly not a proper sort of a trip—for a 
little girl.” 

“Burch!” Hilda exploded. “Why, Burch can’t 
ride.” Her aunt looked bewildered. “Oh, I know— 
he can sit up on a horse. But he wouldn’t be of the 
least bit of use to a trail outfit, would he, Uncle Hank? 
And I can help you lots—can’t I ?” 

“I didn’t understand from Mr. Pearsall that you 
were to help with the work,” Miss Valeria said se¬ 
verely. “I think the work must be a great deal more 
unsuitable for you than the trip itself.” 

“Oh, please, Aunt Valeria—dear Aunt Valeria!” 
entreated Hilda, surging up to her aunt’s knee. “I’ll 
be so good. When we come back I’ll study anything 
you want me to, and not read so many stories.” 

“Well, your music—but then we’ve no piano,” Miss 
Val sighed. “And I believe you said, Mr. Pearsall—” 

She broke off, looking up with a slightly aggrieved 
expression at the tall ranch manager. She had an- 


182 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


nounced to him that Hilda must have a piano, and for 
once Hank had been resolute in refusing to sell some 
ponies and purchase the instrument. 

“We’ll get a piano all right, now, Miss Valeria,” 
he assured her. “Them horses, that I had the nerve 
to hang on to, gives us plenty for the drive. You see, 
it would take a hundred and twenty-five ponies to han¬ 
dle a trail herd of that size, and I don’t know where 
in Texas I’d ’a’ got the money to buy with right now. 
By next spring, if we have luck, I could set you a row 
of pianos plumb acrost the room.” 

“I hardly think we’ll need more than one,” Miss Va¬ 
leria said, somewhat hastily. “But about Hilda—” 

“Run along upstairs and pack your war bag, Pettie. 
We’ll start soon as it’s light in the morning,” said 
Hank to the child; and Hilda flew to obey, leaving him 
to conclude the argument with Miss Van Brunt. 


CHAPTER XVII 


WITH THE TRAIL-HERD 

I N the first gray of morning, a caravan swung out 
from the corral at the Three Sorrows. They 
were making a start at dawn. You can go almost 
anywhere if you start at dawn. Indeed, there are 
worlds that may be penetrated at no other hour. A 
group of riders were in the lead, the remuda, or sad¬ 
dle-band, following, herded by the wrangler; the 
chuck wagon, driven by Pearsall, brought up the rear; 
Hilda, beside Uncle Hank on the high seat, with heaven 
knows what dreams under the thatch of dark hair, 
peeping out sometimes from the clear windows of her 
eyes. 

Early morning on the bald plain. To Hilda, mov¬ 
ing along in its wonderful dimness, curiously the 
thought of Pearse Masters was almost as present as 
though he, and not Uncle Hank, had been beside her 
on the wagon seat. She remembered the long evenings 
together, the games they had played, the talk about 
books they had agreed on, the talk about books they 
disagreed on—one was as interesting as the other. 
She had so wished they might have had one ride to¬ 
gether. Oh, if only he were riding with them now— 
one of Uncle Hank’s hands! She’d let him be a right 
hand. She’d be willing to be the left. People said 
jokingly, when they offered it in shaking hands, that 
it was nearer the heart. She nestled a little toward 
the big arm beside her. 


183 


184 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


‘‘Happy, Pettie?” he questioned, without looking 
around. 

“Awfully happy.” 

They pushed on all forenoon, under the waxing sun, 
stopping at noon beside a well and windmill for din¬ 
ner. And so the trip went, sleeping at night under the 
open sky, near lonely little Llano, where they had 
bought supplies; listening to the boys telling hunting 
and cattle stories till the big bass voices became a 
dream of a bumble-bee; waking in the early morning, 
in response to Uncle Hank’s hail: “Roll out! Roll 
out! Roll out! All the big two-fisted fellers that 
hires for this trip has to get up soon of a-morning— 
ladies the same as gents.” Then breakfast, and once 
more the starting on the day’s journey. 

They came to the outskirts of El Capitan about 
three o’clock on the fifth afternoon. Uncle Hank 
halted the outfit and took Hilda with him over to the 
courthouse, which also included the jail. The sheriff, 
a most obliging person, was, in point of fact, at that 
identical moment, sitting out behind the building play¬ 
ing checkers with Tracey Jacox. The latter, who 
seemed very cheerful, greeted Hank warmly and in¬ 
troduced the official to him as Berry Henson. Mr. 
Henson then courteously withdrew, saying: 

“I know you gents will like to have some private 
talk, and I’ll be right inside here if—er—I’m needed.” 

A lithe, black-haired, gray-eyed man, deeply wea¬ 
thered, Jacox had white teeth that showed often in 
smiles beneath a black mustache. The suggestion of 
him was swift, elastic, lawless, irresponsible, like a 
child or a pleasing animal. Hilda’s pulse had quick¬ 
ened with the first sight of him—this careless Tracey 
Jacox, who had finally “shot up the wrong feller” and 
was taking his medicine so uncomplainingly. Now, 


WITH THE TRAIL-HERD 


185 


when he was formally presented to her, the little-girl 
heart in her bosom fluttered its short, fledgling wings 
toward him in dumb salute. Was he not in some sort 
a prince in misfortune, a fellow-sufferer with Pearse? 

The two old partners sat down on their heels close 
together, cow-puncher fashion, to a long pow-wow. 
Hilda, looking on, thought how different they were. 
Uncle Hank, not more than ten or twelve years the el¬ 
der, looked like Tracey’s father; indeed, he looked like 
the father of all the world, with those kind, shrewd, 
tolerant eyes, that benignant brow, that air of paternal 
solicitude. Jacox was the typical soldier of fortune, 
the gamester, light-hearted and reckless—a thorough¬ 
bred cowpuncher. Hilda’s eyes continued to dwell 
upon him with pleasure until the sheriff hove in sight, 
coming slowly around the corner of the building, cough¬ 
ing apologetically. Jacox stood up and spoke out loud 
to Pearsall, with emphasis: 

“You have the contract drawn like I tell you—hear? 
Why, great Scott! I’d stand to lose the whole herd— 
fixed like I am—less’n I had an honest man and a 
mighty good friend to hold ’em and pertect my inter¬ 
ests. You make a good thing out of it? Well, you 
needn’t fret about that—I want you to.” 

“All right, Trace.” Uncle Hank’s answer was 
lower, but the little girl heard it. 

“Well, that’s settled,” said Jacox. “Come on, 
Berry; we can finish our game now. Me an’ Pearsall’s 
all done.” 

Uncle Hank and Hilda went back to the Three Sor¬ 
rows outfit, which camped on the fifth night at the 
Lazy W., three miles beyond Capitan. 

The cattle were all rounded into a fenced pasture 
for tally. With a little sack of pink Mexican beans, 
Hilda, on her pony, was stationed to one side of the 


186 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


gate, while Uncle Hank, pencil and paper in hand, 
held Buckskin quiet on a rise a little way inside the 
pasture. As the boys drove the cattle up and strung 
them out through the gate in single file, Hank put down 
a straight, upright mark for what he called “every 
cow-brute” that passed him. When the same cow- 
brute got to Hilda, she dropped a bean from the full 
sack into an empty one she held on the saddle horn 
before her. When Uncle Hank had marked down ten 
animals he drew a slanting line through the ten up¬ 
right ones. His record was going to look a good deal 
like a picket fence. Hilda kept no record of tens. She 
was only the checker. When the herd was through 
into the other pasture, where the boys were rushing 
the road-branding, Uncle Hank would add up his tens 
into hundreds, and then Hilda would sit down in some 
quiet spot, if she could find any such, and count her 
beans one by one. 

She was very proud of coming out within three of 
Uncle Hank’s reckoning. She had made it three more 
than he did, and she told him she believed they 
got by him that time the new hand interrupted 
their work with a call from the branding-pen. He 
agreed, and said they’d give Trace the benefit of her 
count, not his. 

Ten new hands had been hired for the work, and on 
the second day the big herd was put in motion; one 
of the new men drove the grub wagon, and after herd, 
riders and wagon were all started, Uncle Hank and 
Hilda rode out side by side. 

“We’ll swing around by way of town. I want to 
stop and say good-by to Trace,” he told her. 

At the courthouse he dismounted and went up to his 
partner, who was sitting with the amiable sheriff on 
the shady side of the jail, their chairs tilted back 


WITH THE TRAIL-HERD 


187 


against the adobe wall. Hilda saw that there was a 
long, speechless hand-grip; and when Hank was mount¬ 
ed, he wheeled again to answer the other’s “Good 
luckl” which accompanied the free-hearted, open 
movement and smile of one who has no complaints to 
make and to whom a few years in jail comes as one of 
the fairly plentiful bad jokes of the cattle-country life. 

A lump rose in her throat as she thought of that 
man of wind and sun and open plain shut away from 
it all for four years. Maybe, too, the “poplar man” 
was offensive; maybe prison would be as terrible to 
Jacox as it would have been to Pearse Masters. But 
there had been nobody to hide him and bring him food 
and lend him a horse. Uncle Hank, wrapped in his 
own somber reflections, did not see the furtive wiping 
of tears; and, presently, as by mutual understanding, 
they put their ponies to a lope and caught up with the 
outfit. The drive up the trail home was actually begun. 

The column of cattle, with attendant riders—Hilda 
being one of these—strung out over a mile long. It 
looked like a great snake on the face of the open coun¬ 
try, a vast snake that, day in day out, in dawn or 
noon or dusk, moved always north-westward, travel¬ 
ing with rustle and swish of twelve thousand hoofs in 
the short plains grass, or sending forth a murmur as 
of a smothered rain-storm when it inched itself over 
naked places; this continuous undernote punctuated and 
picked out by the plaintive bleating of calves; the occa¬ 
sional more remonstrant lowing of a steer, the clink¬ 
ing of stirrups or bridle bits, the squeak of saddles, the 
swift patter of galloping hoofs and the calling back 
and forth, as the boys rode up and down along the 
flanks of the herd. 

They were up in the morning at daybreak, so as to 
travel as much as possible before the heat of the day. 


188 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


At noon there was a long rest, with dinner, the men 
lying at ease to smoke afterwards, the cattle scattered 
out under the fewest herders, grazing. On the trip 
down they had scouted out and marked the route, not¬ 
ing places where a herd of this size could be watered, 
and each afternoon there was the eager looking for a 
curving line of growth that advertised the expected 
stream, or the clumps of tall cottonwoods about a care¬ 
fully fenced-in spring or water-hole. 

There was some rough country to be traversed. 
They crossed steep-sided arroyos, breaks and gulches, 
where lariats were attached to the back of the wagon 
as it plunged down, the ponies “setting back on the 
rope” to prevent the big vehicle from coming bodily 
on the mules that pulled it. Once down, the ropes 
were transferred to wagon-tongue and singletrees, 
and, with a whoop and a great whip-cracking, snort¬ 
ing ponies and straining mules rushed the bank ahead. 

One stormy night Hilda awakened to find all about 
her lumbering, plunging cattle, clashing horns, yelling 
men and, for a few moments, cracking pistols. It 
seemed to her like a pandemonium—chaos—the end 
of the world. Later, from the safe spot under a handy 
mesquite where she had been placed, she dimly saw 
the heading back of the cattle, the milling of them 
round and round and, finally, their safe bedding down. 

Then came, thin and airy on the night wind, the 
broken strains of “The Sweet Bye and Bye.” Indian 
Joe, one of the hands hired at El Capitan, played beau¬ 
tifully on the mouth organ. He was riding night herd; 
she got snatches of the tune as he circled the quieting 
cattle. She fell asleep on it and waked next morning 
to hear the talk of Buster and a casual rider who had 
stopped at the camp to borrow tobacco. 

“Had a stampede?” suggested the stranger, as he 


WITH THE TRAIL-HERD 


189 


rolled his cigarette, and Buster shook his head negli¬ 
gently above the broken stirrup strap he was mending. 

“Shucks, no. They run a little—nothin’ much,” was 
his notion of last night’s frightful hazards, its inhu¬ 
man toil. “You’re welcome, old timer,” he nodded to 
the other’s thanks. “So long!” 

That drive, with its vicissitudes, its new, strange ex¬ 
periences, its open sky and measureless outlook, lay 
like a bright baldric across Hilda’s childhood, dividing 
what went before from what came after. She watched, 
day by day, how the boys buckled to their labors, how 
they faced with a laugh all the hardships of the trip, 
making light of the long night watches, going without 
sleep sometimes in emergencies till they nodded and 
almost fell forward in their saddles. She heard them 
jeer each other mercilessly for the least mistake or 
shortcoming, clothing their rare praise of each other 
in half-sarcastic terms; she believed they would have 
jeered a broken leg—their own or another’s. Not “be 
good” but “make good” was their slogan. Life was 
mostly a joke; a sour one or a gay one, but still a 
joke. The impression of unquestioning, off-hand fidel¬ 
ity to exacting duties, of uncomplaining bravery and 
good nature, was laid ineffaceably on the young spirit. 
The code all this contributed to build up was, inevita¬ 
bly, more a man’s than a woman’s. 

Fourteen men the outfit traveled; fourteen strong 
they snailed the big herd across the face of northwest¬ 
ern Texas toward Lame Jones County. But it was the 
fifteenth, the limber, swift fellow, with eyes keen and 
bright like daggers, that was the life of all. Him they 
never saw, this lively comrade, this clever adversary; 
only his voice they heard in the deep note of the water 
that rolled down like a wall on the face of treacherous 
Maricopa, from a cloudburst above; in the thunder of 


190 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


hoofs at night when skulking rustlers flapped a blan¬ 
ket in a steer’s face and the sleeping cattle rose as one 
and broke away; the gleam of his eyes they caught 
dancing in those curious little flames that play some¬ 
times on the tips of clashing horns, in the furious night 
stampede that followed; a flash of his flying hair upon 
the wind, or amid the dust-cloud that enwrapped the 
approach of a bunch of bad men or hostile Indians. 

Ah, that fifteenth rider—viewless and unapparent, 
but vividly present—that one who, in the eighties, 
crossed the plains with every trail herd and gave zest 
and spirit to the trip, in whose company no labor, no 
hardship could become mean, commonplace, sordid; 
he who was never licked—or being so for the moment, 
always came again, fresher, more vigorous, more in¬ 
citing, more taunting than before, whispering: “My 
name is Danger—come out and face me!”—the op¬ 
ponent with whom every man in the outfit was always 
eager to try a fall—the fifteenth rider rescued all 
from the dullness of routine, maintained men and en¬ 
terprise ever upon the iris-hued border of true romance. 

So faring and so companioned, they arrived within 
one more day’s drive of the Sorrows, Hilda brown as 
an Indian girl, men and cattle in good shape. Yet 
Hank had planned the drive economically, with as few 
hands as he dared. This made hard work for all, and 
the boys were so tired that there was less talk and 
story-telling around the fire now; sleep was instant and 
deep the moment they got from their horses and into 
their blankets. They camped that night near the 
breaks of Seboyeta Creek, where there was wood, wa¬ 
ter and shelter, and Hilda’s bed was tucked in by some 
scrub cedars. With but one more day to go, they put 
the herd under very light night guard, and the rest of 
the outfit were soon snoring. It seemed to Hilda only 


WITH THE TRAIL-HERD 


191 


a few moments later that they were all turned out by 
the cry: 

“Herd’s on its feet and actin’ restless!” 

Instantly every man grabbed his boots and ran, 
Uncle Hank calling to her as he rode out: 

“Make a good fire, Pettie, and stay by it.” 

“What do you suppose started them?” Hilda asked 
of Buster, who was the last to get away. 

“Couldn’t say; coyote, maybe. Or it might have 
been no more than some one riding past cutting across 
here for the trail. If them long-horns were as tired 
as I am, they wouldn’t stampede none,” and he gal¬ 
loped away into the dark. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


SUNDAY COMES BACK 

H ILDA sat alone and fed the fire until its flame 
rose tall and strong. Over her head, the blue- 
black sky was spangled and netted with the 
great white stars of the high plains country. Hands 
clasped around her knees, head flung back, she studied 
them in a sort of musing trance. Distant and dimin¬ 
ished, she could hear men’s singing and calling, out 
yonder with the herd. 

Suddenly, near at hand, as though it spoke right out 
of her fancies, yet sharp and real, a voice uttered her 
name. She straightened up, alert, not believing her 
own senses. Oh, she must have dreamed it! Her 
gaze dived deep into the blot of shadow on the edge 
of the break, from which the voice had seemed to 
come. There, against the deep darkness of the cedar 
scrub, something moved. She sat, motionless, watch¬ 
ing. The voice came again: 

“Hilda!” 

“Pearse!” 

Into the shaken light of Hilda’s fire came stepping 
a tall young fellow in chaparajos and sombrero, his 
spurs clanking as he strode toward her. The blood 
checked all through Hilda’s body, making it tingle; 
her breath seemed to stop. She jumped up and ran 
stumblingly toward him, pushing him back into the 
shadows. The year that had gone by since she hid 
him in the cyclone cellar was wiped out—she was still 
trying to hide him. 


SUNDAY COMES BACK 193 

“The others mustn’t see you,” she whispered. 

“They won’t”; his voice seemed deeper than she re¬ 
membered it; he was more self-reliant. “They’re all 
over there with the cattle. My coming through must 
have started the herd moving. Sorry. I didn’t mean 
to do that. I was just bringing in your Sunday pony, 
with the saddle and bridle; meant to turn him in to 
the corral at the Sorrows to-morrow night, and 
maybe get a word with you. How are you? How’s 
everybody at the ranch?” 

“Oh, Pearse,” unconsciously Hilda was going with 
him toward the rope corral which held the remuda. 
“Just pull the saddle off Sunday and throw it in the 
wagon, and—and turn Sunday in here—and—and 
you’ll stay and see Uncle Hank this time, won’t you?” 

“I hadn’t intended to—‘this time.’ ” Pearse re¬ 
peated her words with a hint of a laugh in his voice. 
“You see, I’ve got the pony with me. He’d know in 
a minute all about my having been at the ranch be¬ 
fore—hidden.” 

“Oh,” said Hilda impatiently. “I wish you’d kept 
Sunday—and the saddle and bridle, too. You’d have 
been more than welcome to them.” 

But in her heart was relief. Not yet—not yet was 
the big secret to be told. She could still have it to 
dream of—all her own. Now that Pearse was here, 
her heart pounded way up in her throat and choked 
speech, but she knew that when he was gone—if he 
got away without any of them seeing him, there would 
be a precious memory added, of romance and adven¬ 
ture. He was speaking: 

“You’re a good friend, Hilda, and the pony was 
everything to me—got me over to New Mexico in 
short order. I’m sure my coming in well mounted 
helped me with those folks I was going to see about 


194 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 

my job and all. Sunday and I are mighty good 
pals—and I thought of you every time I looked at 
him—and that was every day.” 

“Every day—and Sunday,” Hilda laughed softly 
in sheer happiness. “If you were thinking about me 
so much—I think you might have written. You said 
you would. Why didn’t you?” 

“Oh, well, I’d start to,” Pearse said, rather reluc¬ 
tantly, “and then I’d get to thinking what if any one 
should get hold of my letter—open it, maybe—” 

“Why, Pearse,” Hilda broke in, “Uncle Hank 
wouldn’t open a letter addressed to me—and he’s the 
only one that could—if that’s what you mean.” 

“All right,” Pearse nodded. “If you think it’s safe, 
I’ll write. But I didn’t want him to get the idea that 
I’d been hanging around the ranch where he was man¬ 
ager, begging favors.” 

“You didn’t ask favors!” Hilda burst out. “You 
didn’t hang around. Don’t be so—” 

“I don’t know what you call it.” But he was laugh¬ 
ing now. “I begged you into hiding me. I hung 
around the ranch five days. And you certainly did pile 
the favors on me, Hilda. You were as good as gold. 
I’ll never forget you for it. Anyhow, you and I are 
good friends, and always will be, whether we write to 
each other or see each other, or not. Isn’t that so?” 

Hilda nodded. Pearse looked at her a little anx¬ 
iously. 

“I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you this time,” he said 
hastily, “but I wanted you to know how grateful I am. 
There’s a little bundle tied to the saddle horn. Some¬ 
thing for you. Not what I’d like to give you, but the 
best I could get hold of on short notice.” 

“For me? Oh, that was awfully nice of you!” 
Then she groped for some one thing of all she had so 


SUNDAY COMES BACK 


195 


long wanted to say—to ask—and faltered: “Where 
are you living now? At that place in New Mexico 
where you got the job? Are—are you all right?” 

“Still there. Doing well, thank you, Hilda. Got 
three raises the first year. And I’ve heard from 
George and Nelly’s husband. I’m to have the share 
in the J I C that father promised me. Oh—and, 
Hilda, I ran into some people over in New Mexico 
that know you. Name’s Marchbanks.” 

“Oh, yes. Maybelle and Fayte Marchbanks—their 
father’s Colonel Lee Marchbanks.” 

“Those are the folks. Their ranch, the Alamosi- 
tas, is next biggest after the J I C—the ranch I’m 
with—in Encinal County. I’ve never been to head¬ 
quarters on the Alamositas, but I understand it’s a 
fine place. Say, Hilda”—a moment of listening— 
“I’ve got to get out of here.” 

She held to his sleeve, and couldn’t utter a word. 
He hesitated, embarrassed. 

“I will write to you, then, if you—if you think it’s all 
right. Look out for my letters. Don’t let any one 
else get hold of them.” 

“Will you, Pearse—will you? I’ll watch for the 
letters. Nobody shall see them—and—oh, Pearse— 
must you go?” 

She heard the faint sound of hoof-beats coming 
nearer, from the direction of the herd. The boys and 
Uncle Hank would be here in a minute. Pearse caught 
her hand with a whispered: 

“There they come. Good-by.” 

“Good-by,” she echoed whisperingly, then looked 
down at her empty hands. He was gone. The men 
were clattering in. She ran toward the fire, arriving 
just as Uncle Hank, with Buster and several of the 
Sandoval County men, rode up. 


196 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Buster, I’ll get that salve for you,” the foreman 
was saying. “A rope burn is about the meanest kind 
of a—” 

He broke off abruptly. Hilda, stooping to feed the 
fire in order to cover her confusion, had not noticed 
that he was rummaging in the wagon. Glancing up, 
she saw him back away from the vehicle and put his 
hand to his head. 

“Pettie,” he said softly, “come here, honey.” And 
as she approached he added still lower: “Am I los¬ 
ing my wits—or is there—a—er—a saddle—?” 

“Yes, Uncle Hank,” Hilda whispered vehemently, 
laying hold of his arm. “It’s father’s. Sunday’s come 
back. He’s in with the other ponies.” 

“Oh, is he—is he, so?” echoed Hank, feebly. 

“What’s the matter, Pearsall?” Buster called. 
“Can’t you find that salve?” 

“Sure—it’s right here. I’ll fetch it in a minute,” 
and Hank turned hurriedly back to the wagon. 

But before he succeeded in finding the box of salve 
there was an outcry from one of the new hands. 

“Say, Shorty—look here, will you—there’s a strange 
cayuse in the remuda. We seem to have dr awed an¬ 
other card to our hand of ponies.” 

Then came Shorty’s voice: 

“Well, I’ll be jiggered! Come and see, Pearsall. 
Here’s that Sunday horse of Hilda’s that’s been gone 
a year; done flew through the air and lit in our corral. 
If that don’t beat the dickens!” 

“That’s all right, boys,” Uncle Hank said. “It’s all 
right, Shorty. A—er—friend borrowed the pony off 
of Pettie, and—” 

“Why, yes—I allowed so,” said O’Meara. “But, 
how in thunder, did Sunday get here now?” 

“Well, the friend that borrowed him sort of hap- 


SUNDAY COMES BACK 


197 


pened along to-night whilst we was out working with 
the cows, and fetched him.” 

Shorty made no reply. He only whistled a little 
under his breath and glanced keenly toward where 
Hilda stood. Hank got the salve and did up Buster’s 
hand. He was a long time about it. If he intended to 
give Hilda a chance to get away without speaking to 
him, his pretext failed. She lingered, looking at him 
uneasily till he was free and turned to her. 

“Well, Pettie?” 

“Nothing, Uncle Hank.” 

“You ought to be in your blankets and asleep. Run 
along, honey.” 

He wasn’t going to ask any questions. He wouldn’t 
even look an inquiry. Oh, he was good—so good! 
And she had come short of loyalty to him. She had 
not defended him to Pearse. She crept to her blankets 
in the cedar thicket, hunched them about her mechani¬ 
cally and lay sleepless, staring up to where big, bright 
stars talked together of other matters than the affairs 
of mankind. She was disturbed, elated, unhappy—all 
in one. 

The counsels of night and silence finally prevailed, 
and she slept. The cool wind came from a thousand 
miles of wandering over dim levels to ruffle her dark 
hair. Coyotes whimpered off on the edge of the world. 
Hilda slept soundly. But over near the fire a head of 
grizzled black-and-silver crinkles was lifted quietly 
from the blankets; Uncle Hank’s eyes gazed across to 
Hilda’s sleeping place long, with a puzzled, half-be¬ 
wildered expression. 


CHAPTER XIX 

HILDA AND THE FLYING M’s 
HEY came home next day at evening, every¬ 



body dog-tired, but happy. Out to the south, 


the men were working the cattle into the pas¬ 
tures. Hilda rode along up the avenue of box elders. 
She was glad to get home, yet it was hard to turn her 
back on a world in which Pearse might appear at one’s 
camp-fire of an evening, and to take up a permanent 
residence in the one house it seemed impossible he 
should ever visit. 

Burch came thumping down the drive on his pony, 
full of talk about his new lathe that had just come 
from Fort Worth and was a dandy! 

“Show it to you as soon as we get to the house,” 
he said. “Aunt Val let me set it up in the office. 
That makes a good place to work.” 

“Buddy—go see the live things we brought up from 
Sandoval County,” Hilda laughed at him, “things that 
don’t have to be turned out on a lathe—nearly three 
thousand of them. Uncle Hank and I counted—or, 
rather, Uncle Hank counted and I tallied; but the count 
stands on my tally. What do you think of that?” 

Sam Kee stood grinning in the doorway to welcome 
her. Miss Valeria got up from her rocking chair and 
fluttered forward to the sitting-room door to give her 
grand-niece a ladylike kiss. 

“My dear, how brown you are!” she exclaimed, 
holding the girl off a moment to look her over. 
“You’re burnt like an Indian!” 


198 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 199 

And that was all that Miss Valeria Van Brunt could 
see of any change in Hilda. 

With the coming in of the Jacox cattle, existence at 
the Three Sorrows took on a richer note. The price 
of beef could never rule this mortal life there quite so 
cruelly again. 

Summer followed spring; ripened to the tan of 
autumn; the snow fell; it melted in the sun of spring; 
and so on, around the circle of the year four times, 
while their indiscreet owner paid his debt to justice be¬ 
tween stone walls. On the good feed of the Sorrows, 
and under Hank’s management, the herd increased 
much in value. “The third calf,” which belonged to 
the Sorrows for their pasturage, represented a very 
handsome profit indeed. 

In spite of his niggardliness in the matter of “lan¬ 
guage,” old Hank Pearsall held his men as no other 
ranch manager in the neighborhood was able to do. 
The Texas Panhandle of that day was a frontier of 
drifting personalities. When you said “neighbor¬ 
hood,” you meant several counties. The Capadine 
ranch, the McGregor place, the big Matador—a ha¬ 
cienda that had Spanish proprietors—in eleven years 
every one of these had shifted the personnel of its 
working household entirely; but on the Sorrows pay¬ 
roll were still old Snake Thompson, Shorty O’Meara, 
and Buster. Thompson, taciturn and unrelated to his 
kind, a sort of fragment of a human character, who 
seemed to show the marks of some early shipwreck of 
the emotions, put forward that he had “had enough 
wives,” whatever that might mean. He had been away 
from the ranch only three or four times, and then 
briefly. It was understood among the other cow- 
punchers that Snake, on these excursions, prosecuted 
some sort of spree of his own; but no resident of Lame 


200 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Jones County had ever participated in these relaxations 
of the old man’s. 

Shorty, four years married to a young niece of Mrs. 
MacGregor who came out from Scotland to visit at 
the Cross K, had a bunch of cattle of his own and 
some land that adjoined both the Sorrows and the 
Cross K. His cattle ran with the Three S brand, and 
Shorty himself was as near a foreman at the Sorrows 
as could well have been under so active a manager as 
Pearsall. 

Buster, a lad of eighteen when the Van Brunts ar¬ 
rived, had several times collected the wages due him 
and gone ambling away, singing, to some other job. 
But he had always returned. “Sumpin 5 about the old 
Sorrers that sorter draws a feller,” was his explana¬ 
tion. He had had a number of highly interesting love 
affairs. Finally, by the way of answering an adver¬ 
tisement, he had entered upon a long, carefully con¬ 
cealed correspondence with a young lady somewhere in 
the east. When he had pursued this exciting court¬ 
ship for some months, forbearing to draw a dollar of 
wages beyond such as went for cigarettes, he again 
rode away,—money in pocket. He wrote once to 
Hilda, who had been his only confidante, saying that he 
was married, that She was the loveliest, the best and 
the most charming being in the world, and he the hap¬ 
piest. When he came back, which he did nearly a year 
later, Buster looked much older than the lapse of time 
alone warranted, and he laughed less frequently and 
was heard, on occasion, to give utterance to some cyni¬ 
cal opinions. 

The general view of the matter came to be that 
Buster also had “had wives enough.” 

“ ’Cause one’s a-plenty to do the trick, if she’s the 
right sort,” was old Snake’s bitter comment. 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 


201 


Burch was a stocky boy who would never be tall, but 
well built. He got what he could out of the little 
school near the Three Sorrows. Once there was a 
young fellow at the McGregor ranch, a civil engineer, 
who taught him mathematics and said the boy was a 
wonder at it. He went no more to the doctor in Fort 
Worth. 

Miss Valeria, whose hair was all white now above 
her dark eyes and brows, had tried once or twice to 
insist that he was ailing—and got laughed at for her 
pains, by the boy himself and by Hank. Hank, quick 
to note every change in his boy and girl as they grew 
up, had already met the new look in young Burchie’s 
eyes. He watched for it in the countenance of his un¬ 
conscious girl. 

“Parents has got to face it,” he sighed, unaware 
that he spoke aloud, one rainy day when he and Shorty 
and Snake were mending harness. 

“Face what?” demanded Snake testily. “What in 
the old cat are you talking about?” 

“About children,” Pearsall explained. “These grow¬ 
ing children, you don’t never know where you lose ’em. 
Some day or other, you come up and slap your young¬ 
ster on the back and commence talking free—like 
you’ve been used to—giving orders or making fun; 
and suddenly a lady or gentleman that you’ve never 
seen before turns around on you, with a polite look, 
as much as to say, T reckon you’ve got the advantage 
of me, sir!’ ” 

“Well — then what?” demanded the solicitous 
Shorty, whose three-year-old bandit of a red-headed 
daughter held him in shameful subjection. 

“Only one thing, as I figger it,” said Hank. “Don’t 
waste no time whining about duty, and what’s due 
you for past care and labor. Just whirl in and court 


202 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


and make much of that stranger. If it’s a boy, my ob¬ 
servation is that he mostly wants to lick you; and if it’s 
a girl, she’s keen to hide everything from you.” Again 
he sighed. “You’re a stranger to the stranger, and 
the circumstances is all against you. Any confidence 
you get you’ll earn hard.” 

And Hilda? Hilda was seventeen now, of fair 
height for her years, but slim and undeveloped. The 
great dark eyes, with their heavy fringing and the level 
brows above them, were still her only marked beauty. 
She studied hard and was apt to stand high with her 
teacher; released to the playground, she ran rampant. 
Shorty said she was a good mixer. She rode with the 
unconscious courage and freedom of the cowpunchers. 
It never seemed to occur to her that she could not do 
with her pony anything that they could do with theirs. 
She and Uncle Hank had had some little difference of 
opinion from time to time in the matter of what horses 
she should ride, and what ones she should let strictly 
alone. The letting strictly alone went strongly against 
Hilda’s grain. 

About this time Uncle Hank brought home a steel 
blue roan—a snorting, up-headed, four-year-old whose 
neck had never felt a rope, whom Buster and Shorty, 
between them, with the genial irony of the cowpuncher, 
re-named Creeping Mose, because he could run like a 
streak of blue lightning. 

“He’s been let go so long that it’s a question whether 
he’ll ever be plumb gentled now,” said Hank. “But 
he’s a powerful good animal, and I took a chance on 
him.” 

Hilda, who had ridden out to meet the herd and 
was having dinner at the wagon, could not keep her 
eyes off the new horse. A smile passed between her 
and Uncle Hank, but nothing was said at that time, 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 


203 


beyond Hilda’s declaration that she was coming down 
to the corral next day to watch the breaking. 

Uncle Hank let her accompany him the next morn¬ 
ing. At sight of the horse, head up, ears pricked, 
snuffing the air suspiciously, Hilda could not restrain 
her enthusiasm. 

“Oh, Uncle Hank, I would love to have him for 
mine!” she whispered. “I never have had a horse that 
was really fast. He’s not vicious—only just spirited 
and unbroken. I know I could ride him after the boys 
have topped him a few times.” 

“There ain’t a thing on earth about a hoss that 
you don’t think you can do,” grumbled old Snake, fas¬ 
tening the gate behind them. “You’re fixin’ to get 
yourself killed. Pearsall ought to keep you out of the 
corral.” 

Hank had passed on to talk to Buster. It was 
Shorty who jeered the pessimist. 

“G’wan, Thompson—whose corral is it? If you 
don’t know, let me introduce you to Miss Van Brunt, 
owner of the Three Sorrows. Hilda, you just shin up 
on the fence if you want to see the fun. Buster’s go¬ 
ing to top him first. Bet a nickel the blue sends him to 
grass.” 

The roan was roped, thrown, blinded and saddled, 
Buster was up at last and with the cry, “Turn loose!” 
they were off, the horse traveling in a series of bucks 
straight around the corral. But he attempted no mur¬ 
derous tactics; he was only for shaking off the man on 
his back; and he moved with such swiftness and beauty 
of action as is not often seen in a range-bred horse. 

“Can’t I have him for mine—oh, can’t I, Uncle 
Hank?” Hilda shouted unrestrainably from the top of 
the fence, where she clung watching. 

“Looks like it,” chuckled the old man, as the blue 


204 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


roan finally made his point and sent Buster over his 
head, then ran snorting in circles. “In about—well, 
about a year, Pettie, when this feller’s had plenty of 
cutting work and range riding—he’ll be fit for a lady’s 
use. Whoa, there—Buck!” as his rope circled the 
horse’s neck. “Let me try him. Now, Pettie, you’ll 
see your Uncle Hank get a fall.” 

The boys held the roan; Hank eased quickly into the 
saddle, where he brought to bear a strange skilled gen¬ 
tleness he had with horses which had often calmed 
even an outlaw, and which saw him safely through this 
time, though more than once the boys whooped that 
he was “pulling leather.” 

Hilda watched enviously, until he dismounted after 
half an hour’s struggle, horse and man dripping with 
sweat and trembling with exhaustion, but the first stage 
of Creeping Mose’s education fairly completed. 

For a lady’s use! She would have liked to shout 
to him that she was not a lady—that she never exr 
pected or intended to be one, if it meant that she had 
to ride only horses that a baby would be safe on. A 
year, indeed! But she said nothing. She still had that 
habit of dreaming things—dramatizing what she would 
have liked to say in her own mind, instead of saying it. 

In the old days it would have been The Boy-On-The- 
Train who tamed Creeping Mose, ‘with a turn of the 
wrist. But now, all the time she sat on the corral 
fence watching Uncle Hank handle the wild, courageous 
thing, she was thinking of Pearse as she’d known him 
in the days of the cyclone cellar, in that snatched visit 
on the trail coming back with the Jacox cattle. Pearse 
was on a ranch. He was the kind to do whatever he 
did better than those about him did it. As usual, she 
just put Pearse in Uncle Hank’s place on the blue 
roan’s back, had him take rather more risks, and 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 20 5 

couldn’t keep from clapping her hands when he came 
through gloriously. 

Uncle Hank glanced up, caught her glowing eyes 
fixed on him, and looked a little startled. She climbed 
down and walked soberly away. After all, the cyclone 
cellar was the place to indulge in dreams of Pearse. 
She was glad now that she’d never shared the secret 
of her retreat with Burch—or with any one. 

It was Sam Kee who helped her carry down the old 
desk that she put in there, and she even made the 
Chinaman leave it in the outer cellar, not removing the 
shielding boxes she kept piled over its door till he was 
back in the kitchen, tugging the heavy piece of furni¬ 
ture along the narrow passage by herself. Book after 
book had drifted down from the shelves upstairs to 
be added to those she kept in a row on the desk top; 
pictures that took her fancy were tacked up all around; 
she used to slip away to this retreat at certain times 
to read a little, write less and dream much. Stolen 
hours, these, when Burch or Aunt Val or Uncle Hank 
may have thought she was out for a ride or gone to 
one of the neighbors. 

And these dreams of Pearse, in the dim, brown- 
walled, dusky, shut-away, little chamber, were about 
all she had left of him. Not quite, for though he’d 
never written, as he promised he would, neither had he 
forgotten her. Every Christmas and every birthday 
brought some gift to her from him. The first Christ¬ 
mas after the drive there came to her, by the hand of 
a freighter, a splendid Navajo blanket. Everybody 
but Uncle Hank wondered over it. The old man 
asked no questions. He knew it must have come from 
that one to whom she had lent the Sunday pony, with 
Charley’s bridle and saddle. 

When the beautiful thing disappeared from Miss 


206 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Val’s couch, where it had been spread, and noisy in¬ 
quiries stirred up the entire household, Uncle Hank 
again expressed no surprise. Hilda had carried the 
blanket down to the cyclone cellar. It covered the 
lounge which had been Pearse’s bed. Captain Snow 
slept on it and filled it with white cat hairs that Hilda 
carefully brushed off. When the next Christmas 
brought a quirt and Mexican hackamore of gayly col¬ 
ored and braided horsehair, she refused to put them to 
sordid use and, after a time, they followed the blan¬ 
ket, hanging on the wall over the lounge. She had a 
great delight in them. Was not their presence there, 
their color and beauty, so lovingly, painstakingly 
wrought, visible evidence that he had not forgotten, 
any more than she had? 

The third year of Jacox’s imprisonment saw his re¬ 
lease by an indulgent governor. When Tracey came 
forth a free man, more than four thousand cattle of 
his brand would trail out of the Three Sorrows pas¬ 
tures—for the herd had prospered greatly. Hank had 
bought a few cows, here and there, judiciously, where 
he heard of a bargain; but despite this fact, the depar¬ 
ture of the Jacox herd unexpectedly soon would leave 
the ranch greatly understocked. The manager realized 
that he would need to find other cattle to take on the 
shares in order to fill up, and he was glad to receive a 
proposition from Colonel Lee Marchbanks of Encinal 
County, New Mexico, who wrote to say that the range 
out there had failed badly from drouth, and he would 
like to pasture a herd of probably two thousand of 
his Flying M stock cattle on the Sorrows, where he 
knew the grass was unfailing. Sitting in the office, 
Uncle Hank showed that letter to Hilda; the old man 
kept to his idea of making her as full a partner in the 
running of the ranch as a girl of her age could be. 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 


207 


“Seems kind of funny, doesn’t it, Uncle Hank,” she 
said, “to think of Marchbanks cattle on our pastures? 
Do you remember Fayte Marchbanks telling me when 
we first came here, and I didn’t know anything about 
such things, that this was his ranch?” 

The old man nodded, smiling a little, and turned to 
the letter he was writing, to arrange terms. The herd 
was brought over by Marchbanks’ range boss in Octo¬ 
ber and left at the Sorrows, to remain six months. 

They arrived, gaunt and sorry-looking from the 
long trail and the months of poor grass that had gone 
before. But to at least one person on the ranch they 
possessed a secret interest and charm. They had come 
all the way from Encinal County, in which lies the J 
I C ranch, where Pearse Masters lived. Why, any 
one of those sad-faced brindle cows might have seen 
Pearse himself—in the flesh! In some indefinite way, 
Pearse seemed nearer to her while the Marchbanks 
cattle were on the ranch. 

Late in the following March, Hank announced, one 
evening at the supper table, that all hands would be 
needed next day for rounding up the Flying M’s. 

Hilda’s head was lifted; her glance fixed eagerly on 
the old man’s face. 

“Who’s coming for them, Uncle Hank?” Burch 
asked, and saved her the necessity of doing so. 

“The Colonel himself, this time,” rejoined Hank, 
taking a letter from his pocket and running over its 
lines. “He’s liable to be here to-morrow or next day; 
going to camp at Tres Pinos the last night and get in 
here fresh to help us work the cattle and road-brand.” 
Hilda had come and leaned over his shoulder to look 
at the letter. “Even so,” he told her, as she rubbed 
her cheek against the grizzled curls, “it’s going to 
take every hand we’ve got. You children can both 


208 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


help.” He glanced across to where Burch, close un¬ 
der the lamp, had gone back to his figuring and dia¬ 
grams. “Son, I’ll need even you.” 

The men were out by daybreak. Hilda was not 
much behind them. As she hurried down to the cor¬ 
ral, after a snatched breakfast, to get her horse, she 
was trying to picture Colonel Marchbanks to herself; 
she was carrying on some light, easy conversation with 
him, in which there always came up a careless question, 
variously phrased, as to whether or not he knew a 
young man employed on the J I C ranch by the name 
of Masters. Buster, the last man out, checked his 
pony to point to the mail bag, hanging on the corral 
wall, and shout: 

“I brought it in so late last night that I hated to 
wake you all. Take it up to the house, won’t you, 
Hilda?” 

She saddled up swiftly, curbed an impulse to leave 
the bag till she got back, reached it from its nail, when 
she was in the saddle, and rode around toward the 
back to throw it in on the sacred precincts of Sam Kee’s 
porch. Nobody but Hilda dared to do a thing like 
that. 

As she got through the corral gate, she saw Burch 
half-way out toward the main trail. He turned and 
yelled at her—a brother’s yell—but she had drawn 
from among the other mail in the bag a letter, ad¬ 
dressed in a dashing, clerkly hand, to Miss Hilda Van 
Brunt, The Three Sorrows, Dawn, Lame Jones 
County, Texas. In that hand had come addressed all 
her anonymous gifts. She neither heard nor saw any¬ 
thing about her. 

Burch whooped long and derisively, while she sat 
her pony and read, over and over, the brief letter the 
envelope contained: 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 


209 


Dear Hilda, 

I wonder if this will get to Lame Jones County before I 
do. Hope it will, for I’m certainly not going to ride up to 
the Three Sorrows and call, and I do want to see you. I’m 
making a quick trip through for my company, and I think 
I’ll be somewhere in your neighborhood about March 28th. 
That sounds pretty uncertain to you, maybe, but if you should 
happen to be on the main trail any time that day—why, then 
you’d happen to see 

Your friend, 

Pearse Masters. 

March twenty-eighth! That was to-day! What 
luck, that they were going to work Flying M cattle in 
the small pasture lying beside the Ojo Bravo trail! 
That was what Pearse must mean. She sent one last 
shout after the departing Burch, rode her pony along 
the garden walk and deftly shot the mail bag in, while 
Sam Kee grumbled at her, then loped off to join the 
working force. Had. the small pasture not com¬ 
manded the Ojo Bravo trail, Uncle Hank would have 
lacked her help that day—in which case, many things 
might have been different. 

As it was, her eyes, continually turned to the west¬ 
ward way, were first to see a light outfit coming in on 
the lower trail. She waved and shouted to Uncle Hank 
to call his attention. There were only six riders and 
a chuck wagon. Hank joined brother and sister at 
the fence and studied the newcomers in the distance 
with some surprise. The work of getting ready was 
well under way. All the Marchbanks cattle were in 
one enclosure. It was barely ten o’clock, yet the sun 
was beginning to be unpleasantly warm, and Hank 
pushed back his hat to rub his forehead dubiously and 
say: 

“If there was anybody else for that to be, I’d say it 


210 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


wasn’t them. They’re flyin’ mighty light and goin’ 
might fast for an outfit that expects to pick up two- 
thousand-and-some cows.” 

On they came, the riders at a thundering gallop, the 
chuck wagon bumping behind. There was something 
dashing, arresting, inconsequent about their approach. 
Hank rode slowly down the fence line, Hilda and 
Burch after him, and greeted the men half doubt¬ 
fully. 

The leader raised a hand in salute. Here was the 
father of Maybelle and Fayte. Here was that Lee 
Marchbanks, the Virginian whom Guadalupe Romero 
had run away to marry. Somehow he was disap¬ 
pointing to Hilda. Dressed about as any cattleman 
would be, well mounted, and unusually well armed, he 
was still very different from the mental picture she 
had of him. In this open-range country it was cus¬ 
tomary for an outfit to carry weapons, yet the rifle 
swung under every rider’s right leg, the handle of the 
bowie knife protruding here and there from a casual 
boot-leg, in addition to the familiar pair of six-shooters 
at each belt, made the group look positively warlike. 
Naturally Hilda’s attention centered most on a young 
fellow, slim, dark, but with odd, long, slate-gray eyes, 
who rode next to the leader and regarded everybody 
about him with an air of authority and a little half 
smile that lifted a small dark mustache. 

“I reckon them are my cattle,” said the leader, 
abruptly, and without a greeting. “I’ve come for 
em. 

“Colonel Marchbanks?” Hank spoke with his usual 
politeness. The man across the barbed-wire fence shot 
him a quick glance of surprise—or was it suspicion? 
Then, with a bare nod, repeated: 

“We’ve come for the cattle.” 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 


211 


“I see,” said Hank. 

The others sat their ponies, alert, looking about 
them as men who have never been in a country before 
may do. Hilda saw the young fellow nearest to the 
Colonel say something to him in a low tone, and 
Marchbanks spoke again, on a somewhat different 
note: 

“Sorry to hurry you, Pearsall. We’re taking the 
cattle right out.” 

“What!” ejaculated Hank, startled into the mild 
indiscretion of questioning. “This afternoon? Turn 
right around and take the trail without waiting to 
rest?” 

The colonel reddened angrily. 

“The cattle’s fresh, ain’t they?” he snapped. “They 
don’t need to rest. I aim to take ’em out—and that 
as damned quick as I can get ’em out!” 

Speech and manner were sufficiently surprising. 
Hilda looked anxiously at Uncle Hank. But the man¬ 
ager had caught his breath now. His steady eyes stud¬ 
ied the outfit unhurriedly. The horses were good, 
they and the men well accoutered. But the letter in 
Hank’s pocket mentioned things that couldn’t be done 
and get the cattle out in one day. 

“Well,” he allowed, “I don’t know but by pressing 
all hands in to help, we might get ’em out and worked 
and tallied over for ye. But what about the road¬ 
branding?” 

The colonel shook his head. It might have meant 
anything. The slim dark young fellow who held Hil¬ 
da’s rather unwilling attention, and got her grudging 
admiration, in spite of lingering doubts, turned and 
spoke to the four others in so low a tone that Hilda 
thought Uncle Hank could hardly hear him. What 
he said was: 


212 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“We’ll go through here, boys—cut the fence. Gid, 
you’ve got the nippers—cut here.” 

Gid was instantly off his horse and at work. 

The angry blood flew to Hilda’s face. 

“Hold on!” cried Pearsall. “Hold on! There’s a 
gate up yonder a piece. It won’t take you fifteen min¬ 
utes longer, I—” He hesitated to characterize so wan¬ 
ton an outrage. “Don’t cut my fence.” 

The wires had already sprung, jangling and quiver¬ 
ing, to the ground. 

“The boys’ll mend it. I’ll pay you,” Marchbanks 
said briefly, putting his horse through the gap. “Come 

a 

on. 

The seven men rode to the herd, from whose edges 
Burch and the Three S cowboys were watching the 
maneuvers of the newcomers. 

“Get to work, men,” said Marchbanks, and the cut¬ 
ting out of calves was soon in full swing. 

Hilda and her brother were set to hold the “cut.” 
Burch wasn’t skillful, but Hilda made up for it. She 
could keep her eye on the cattle and still have plenty 
of attention to give to the young man she thought was 
Fayte Marchbanks, riding close to his father, acting 
as though he really directed every move the colonel 
made. If it was Fayte, he paid no attention whatever 
to her; didn’t seem to remember her at all. When he 
did lift a glance her way, she had a queer little thrill, 
not entirely pleasant, at the flashing out of his odd, 
slate-gray eyes under the black brows; eyes whose reck¬ 
less light matched the bravo slant of his sombrero and 
went well with the general air of the heavily armed 
Marchbanks party. She had half a mind to leave 
Burch holding the cut a moment while she rode over 
and said “Hello” to him and asked about Maybelle. 
There was even a daring thought that she’d inquire of 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 


213 


him, instead of his father, if he’d met Pearse Masters 
over in New Mexico. She did start to do it, but Uncle 
Hank waved her back. Then she noticed how funny 
Uncle Hank was acting—so heavy and slow-witted. 

“Careful about cutting out them calves,” he cau¬ 
tioned his men, again and again. “I don’t want to rob 
the owner, nor have the owner rob the Sorrows. We’re 
all young. Ain’t such an awful haste.” 

“The hell they ain’t!” broke out Marchbanks, in 
whose hearing this was said. “Who told you?” 

There was an instant of dubious silence. Old Snake 
bristled for all the world like a faithful dog who sus¬ 
pects that his master is affronted. Shorty sat up sud¬ 
denly in the saddle, his blue eyes fairly blazing in his 
•brick-red face. Then Pearsall spoke, with mild civil¬ 
ity 5 

“Didn’t camp at Tres Pinos —did you?” 

Marchbanks, hustling an unruly calf toward the cut, 
ejaculated: 

“At Tres Pinos —no! Who said I was camping 
there?” 

Pearsall pulled up his buckskin pony and let a cow get 
past him unnoticed. The Flying M man’s active young 
lieutenant yelled a protest in vain. Hilda edged in to¬ 
ward Uncle Hank. She had read that letter, too; yet 
it was characteristic of the western cattle country—of 
which she was growing to be a well-seasoned citizen— 
that not a word, not a glance, passed between them. 
They both knew that this might be Marchbanks, and 
his behavior merely a matter of temperament or ec¬ 
centricity; but he might be a rustler. Such high-handed 
robbery was not unknown. She knew that there was 
more than fifty thousand dollars’ worth of stock con¬ 
cerned. The outsiders were seven, all suspiciously 
well armed. Presently Uncle Hank drifted himself 


214 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


to her side, dismounted and, under pretext of tighten¬ 
ing her cinch, spoke to her: 

“Listen sharp, Pettie. Mind, I ain’t sure—you 
never can tell—there ain’t one of us here, as it chances, 
that’s ever seen Lee Marchbanks. You heard these 
fellers over there at the fence. What I’m thinking is 
that if Shorty, or me, or Thompson—or even Burch— 
was to try to leave this pasture, we’d have war on our 
hands. But you can go, I reckon. You can make it 
this-away: talk around free about being hungry, and ask 
me to let you go up to the house and get your dinner. 
Then, the minute you’re out of sight, you put spurs to 
that pony and ride all you know, straight for Tres 
Pinos. If there’s nobody there, come back easy, for I 
reckon it’ll be all right. If you find the Flying M out¬ 
fit camped at the spring, fetch ’em on the jump, honey.” 
He raised his voice. “There, I reckon that’ll hold— 
but it needs mending with a new one.” 

They sheered apart. Hilda whirled her pony to 
help Marchbanks with a calf he was heading. 

“Thank you, little lady,” he said, with an admiring 
glance for her horsemanship and skill. “You’re the 
girl for my money.” 

“I could work better if I wasn’t so hungry,” laughed 
Hilda. “Oh, Uncle Hank,” as Pearsall came past, 
“can’t I, please, go up to the house and get something 
to eat? I’m starving.” 

“Aw—you’re shirking, Hilda!” cried Burch, over¬ 
hearing. “No fair! Uncle Hank, make her stay, and 
we’ll all go up together.” 

This accidental detail made Hilda’s exit very plaus¬ 
ible. Marchbanks himself, pleased by the girl’s appar¬ 
ent liking, put in: 

“This work’s not fit for young ladies, anyhow. Let 
Miss Hilda go.” 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 


215 


Hilda wheeled her pony and gave him the spur. 
“I’ll bring you all some of Sam Kee’s pi-i-ie!” she 
called back, as she galloped away toward the gate. 

Through all the excitement of the morning, she had 
not failed to keep an eye on the western trail. Sup¬ 
pose Pearse should be coming along now—just as she 
crossed it! Her nerves tautened to the thought. 

Back at the herd, Uncle Hank, a most patient and 
skillful handler of cattle, began to make a series of 
strange blunders. Twice he nearly stampeded the 
Marchbanks cut. Once he put his pony so squarely 
across the colonel’s path that it was only by fine horse¬ 
manship that that gentleman missed a bad fall. 

“For God’s sake, old man!” he snarled. “Get in 
the house and tend to your knitting, and let us work 
these cows. You needn’t be afraid I won’t leave you 
your share. If you stay out here and make many more 
passes like that, we’ll have men to bury.” 

“I was thinking about something else.” Pearsall 
seemed to overlook the rebuke. “I ain’t generally so 
awkward. Maybe I’d better go down and mend 
fence.” 

“Not till we’ve put our cattle through that gap!” 
cried Marchbanks. 

“Oh—all right, all right,” agreed the manager. 

Meanwhile, Hilda was pushing Sunday toward the 
house at his top speed—which wasn’t very much— 
Sunday had been faster when he was three years 
younger. As she went, there thrilled through her ex¬ 
ultantly the thought of Creeping Mose in the home 
corral. His breaking had been interrupted for the 
gathering of the Flying M cattle. She shut her lips 
tight together, and gave Sunday the spur. She remem¬ 
bered Buster’s first proud introduction of the blue roan 
to her attention: 


216 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


‘‘Run! He can run like a scared wolf.” 

Having crossed the trail and got no sight of a soli¬ 
tary rider whom she could identify as Pearse, Hilda 
was desperate. She must not refuse to ride to Tres 
Pinos to save the Marchbanks cattle; but Sunday 
would be all the rest of the day making such a trip. 
Pearse would pass by while she was gone. Creeping 
Mose was the only thing on the place that could get 
her there and back in time to have a chance of meet¬ 
ing Pearse. Again she spurred Sunday, and he went 
past the porch, where Miss Valeria dozed over a novel, 
with such a burst of speed that the lady waked up, 
looked after her niece, somewhat aggrieved, and called 
a remonstrance, settling down to a murmured: “Get¬ 
ting too big a girl for these hoyden tricks. I ought to 
speak to Mr. Pearsall. The man encourages her.” 

Hilda took a short cut through the kitchen garden, 
where Sam Kee, cutting delectable heads of lettuce 
from their stalks, rose in wrath as the pony’s hoofs 
plunged into the soft, brown, irrigated soil. 

“You spoil ’urn!” he squealed. “Unc’ Hank—he 
spoil ’urn you.” 

For only answer the girl glanced back over her 
shoulder to where, in his faded denim, he hopped 
about like an infuriated and oversized bluejay, his 
squawks inevitably suggesting the comparison, and 
called: “Come on—come on, Sam. Help me.” 

“No help!” the Chinaman ejaculated, toddling after 
her. When he reached the corral and found her with 
the saddle off the sweating Sunday, her rope swinging, 
saw it settle over Creeping Mose and bring him up 
short, Sam stopped in the tall, door-like gateway and 
burst out in a splutter of dismay: 

“You let ’urn blue horse ’lone. Blue horse debbil. 
Unc’ Hankie say let ’urn ’lone.” 


HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S 


217 


Hilda had got the bridle on Mose. 

“Come here and hold him for me,” she cried. 
“Come on—quick, Sam. He won’t try to stamp you 
—he never does. He’ll be all right when I’m up on 
him. Hurry. He’ll only buck and run.” 

The Chinaman came. He took the reins in prac¬ 
ticed yellow fingers. 

“You die an’ be kill,” he said. 

Up went the saddle, but the pony dodged it, lower¬ 
ing himself and flinching away just at the right instant. 
Again this maneuver was repeated, Hilda, panting, 
desperate over the loss of time. 

“Take your apron off and flap it in his face. Go on, 
Sam Kee—flap your apron,” she commanded chok¬ 
ingly. 

Protesting, refusing, “No I No take off ape’!” Sam 
Kee obeyed. Once more, Hilda swung the saddle; 
this time it landed. Almost in the instant of jerking 
tight the last cinch-strap, she was up. 

Creeping Mose hung a moment, as in surprise, 
then humped his back for the first plunge. She whirled 
her heavy quirt and brought it down with all her 
might. Mose, with lowered head stuck out straight, 
shot through the gate in a series of long leaps. 

Sam Kee sat down, legs rigid before him, black eyes 
blinking, listening to the thunder of the hoofs as 
Creeping Mose ran like a streak out along the Tres 
Pinos trail. 


CHAPTER XX 


HILDA AND THE BLUE ROAN 

T HE first four miles were covered at terrific 
speed, though three times Creeping Mose 
stopped with a plunge and declared his in¬ 
tention of fighting it out then and there. But Hilda 
was aflame. Fear was wiped out. Between the level 
plain and burning sky, she knew only Creeping Mose 
and herself—herself with neither flesh nor bones, nor 
anything but a blind determination to force him to her 
will. 

She clung like a limpet. When the horse bucked 
most fiercely, she swung the quirt and let him have it 
with all the strength of her arm. Her black hair was 
shaken out of its plait and blew behind her, a waving 
banner; her face was crimson with the heat and exer¬ 
tion. On heaving chest and shoulders the shirt-waist 
clung, soaked. At every jump sweat flew from the 
horse and spattered on the dry, hot earth. At last 
Mose flung himself obliquely into the air in a whirling 
buck. She set her teeth for what she’d seen the boys 
do, and brought the head of her quirt down in a thump 
between his ears. She hated to do that, but it seemed 
to be what Mose needed; with a snort, he gathered 
himself; then, as though he decided that what he had 
on his back was boss of the expedition, stretched out his 
neck and broke away in a dead run that was a revela¬ 
tion to Hilda of horse speed. 

No captive of old Rome ever drove his chariot race 
218 


HILDA AND THE BLUE ROAN 


219 


down the great hippodrome in a finer ecstasy of rash¬ 
ness than that which thrilled through Hilda as the long 
levels streamed back beneath those flying hoofs. This 
wasn’t the Hilda of the cyclone cellar who needed to 
dress up and make believe for her romance. 

Her whole thought had been to rush the thing 
through and get back to the trail where it cut the road 
to El Capitan, where she would meet Pearse; but this— 
this was real daring and adventure. It was the sort of 
thing any one of the boys would have done, taking it 
all as a part of the day’s work. She, too, let her whole 
self go in the action, like one of them, like a soldier on 
a battlefield. She’d taken Creeping Mose against 
Uncle Hank’s orders. But she knew the rules of the 
range: if she made good—and she would—she was all 
right. At the end of four breathless, flashing miles, 
the horse was still running strongly. 

Four miles and a half; he was coming down to a 
steady, swinging lope. Five miles; the fierce sun stung 
her bare head and face, the wind roared in her ears, 
continuous, browbeating, and her horse was almost at 
the end of wind and strength. 

As the blue roan ceased to fight her, Hilda’s thoughts 
had a chance to clear a bit, she had breath and atten¬ 
tion to admire him. She leaned forward and patted 
him on the neck—and the sweat fumed up around her 
hand like suds. A year—Uncle Hank had thought he 
might be fit for her in a year—and here she was riding 
him within three days! 

What was happening back there on the Three Sor¬ 
rows? That outfit were rustlers. Uncle Hank thought 
so, or he’d never have sent her on such an errand as 
this. She couldn’t get away from the belief that the 
young fellow with them was Fayte Marchbanks. And 
the cattle belonged to Fayte’s father. Well—that 


220 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


didn’t make any difference—they were rustlers just the 
same. 

Nobody but a rustler would have been as careless as 
that man was about the count. People didn’t feel that 
way about their own cattle. That look in his eye, 
when he praised her and called her “little lady”—she 
wasn’t exactly sure where and how it offended her so 
much, yet she knew that it did offend. Rustler! That’s 
what he was. 

Far off on that open plain the three pines that stood 
above the spring began to show like tiny weeds. With 
her breath coming in gasps, scarce able to feel the sad¬ 
dle beneath her or the rein she clutched in her hands, 
she yet brought her heels sharply against Mose’s drip¬ 
ping sides, and he answered with a spurt. Taller and 
taller the pines loomed; finally, she could make out be¬ 
neath them a hooded chuck-wagon, hobbled ponies, 
and men lying or sitting about. 

No need of the quirt now; Creeping Mose obeyed 
her hand or voice humbly. As she used both to 
encourage him, he gave a sort of convulsive cat-hop 
and, shaking his head, plunged forward at a jolting, 
uneven run, which, exhausted, as she was, came near 
to unseating her. She could hardly see the camp as she 
swept in to it, hardly hear the shouts of the men, who 
jumped up and ran toward her, one of them catching 
the bit, bringing the horse to a standstill, another lift¬ 
ing her down as she rolled from the saddle. 

She heard some one call: “Colonel Marchbanks— 
come here!” And then another voice, saying: 

“Whoa, Buck!” 

“Hold up, sister! Steady, steady, young lady! 
Had a runaway?” 

“Whoa, Buck—whoa!” roared the cowpuncher who 
had seized Creeping Mose, revolving with him, kick- 


HILDA AND THE BLUE ROAN 


221 


ing up a great dust. “You old fool—don’t you know 
when you’re done?” Abruptly the horse halted, he 
dropped at once into exhaustion, a sweat-soaked miser¬ 
able spectacle. The man who held Hilda called over 
his shoulder: 

“Tarpy, fetch a pan of water, quick!” and when the 
squat little cook hurried up with the basin, he dipped 
his handkerchief in it and laved Hilda’s face and 
hands. “Plucky young ’un,” he said softly to Tarpy. 
“She isn’t going to faint. Hey, you boys—Slim and 
Charley! Pull that bedding roll over here.” 

In those first moments, as Hilda lay there in a sort 
of daze, she entirely forgot the errand that had 
brought her out here in such a fury of eagerness. All 
she could see was Pearse, going past the Sorrows gate 
—missing her. Oh—why had she come? Somebody 
was lifting her into a more comfortable position against 
the bedding roll. The big man drew the dripping 
handkerchief again and again across her face; then 
dipped hands and wrists into the basin itself. 

“You’re all right now,” he repeated. “You’re not 
hurt.” 

Her eyes opened in a quick look about her and fixed 
upon his face. 

“Colonel Marchbanks?” 

“Yes, that’s my name,” he said. “Were you look¬ 
ing for me? What’s the matter?” 

Hilda’s gasping had moderated. She drew in as 
much breath as she was able and spoke clearly: 

“An outfit came in this morning after your cattle—” 

“What outfit?” 

“I don’t know. They came in this morning. They 
cut our fence and made Uncle Hank begin work right 
away.” 

Marchbanks bent forward sharply, Tarpy, the cook, 


222 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


beside him. The two boys who had brought the bed¬ 
ding roll leaned frankly over the others’ shoulders. 

“Uncle Hank—they didn’t act right—he sent me 
here. We thought, when they wouldn’t road-brand—” 

“You’re a good girl,” said the colonel; “I’ll thank 
you later.” 

Then he stood up, ordering: 

“Get the hobbles off the best horses. Every man 
saddle his own. All come with me but Tarpy and Slim. 
Tarpy,” he spoke in a lower tone to the cook, “you 
stay with the little girl. If she gets able to go back 
home and wants to [Hilda tried to say, “I do,” but 
no sound came], have Slim put her saddle on my sor¬ 
rel, and ride over, easy, with her.” Then he turned 
to question her again: 

“How big an outfit is it? What do they look like?” 

Hilda answered in little, broken sentences: 

“Six of them—and a chuck-wagon. But they had 
so many guns. He’s very young—almost a boy.” 

The colonel was buckling his cartridge belt; he 
whirled and looked at her, demanding: 

“Which one is that you’re speaking of?” 

“The one that rode right beside the man that called 
himself Colonel Marchbanks. He looked like— We 
all took him for—” 

The real Colonel Marchbanks glanced to where his 
men were getting on their ponies. He waved to them 
to ride on, and they whirled away in a cloud of dust. 
Then, bracing hands on knees, he bent down and 
prompted: 

“You took him for—?” 

“Your son.” 

The colonel straightened up without a word, ran to 
his pony, flung himself upon it, and was off after the 
others. 


HILDA AND THE BLUE ROAN 


223 


She rested, with closed eyes, glad to be let alone. 
Presently she heard Slim’s voice, in guarded tones: 

“Ye took notice what the little girl said. That’s 
Fayte, all right.” 

There was silence for a few minutes, then Slim 
spoke again: 

“Sort of sorry for the colonel.” 

“Yeah,” assented Tarpy. “G’wan an’ round up 
them horses, Slim, and have ’em all saddled an’ ready 
time she’s had this coffee. She’s game; you’ll git 
over, mebbe, in time to git a look-in at the festivi¬ 
ties—or the funeral—after all.” 

Slim hesitated, looking doubtfully at Hilda. She 
sat up as Tarpy came toward her with a steaming tin 
cup, declared herself all right and, to prove it, drank 
the strong coffee. Tarpy stood looking, and then 
stated, respectfully: 

“Slim’ll be ready, Miss, whenever you want to ride 
over. That sorrel of the colonel’s is as easy as a rock¬ 
ing chair.” 

“Mebbe we hadn’t ought to hurry the young lady,” 
Slim put in, wistfully. “She’s had an awful trip, 
an’—” 

“Oh, no, no!” cried Hilda, gathering up her hair, 
beginning to braid it with hands that shook. “I must 
go—I’ve got to!” 

“Sure, I know how you feel, ma’am,” sympathized 
Tarpy. “Fetch up the sorrel, Slim.” 

Slim responded promptly this time. Hilda turned 
again to look where Creeping Mose stood motionless, 
his feet braced wide, his head hanging, the streaming 
sweat drying on his blue-gray coat in rough cakes. She 
got to her feet and stumbled over to him. She laid a 
hand on his neck—there was no snorting and tossing 
up of his head now. Creeping Mose never even 


224 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


flinched—he had all he could do to just stand on those 
four wide-braced feet. Hilda choked a little. 

“I feel the same way myself, Mose,” she muttered, 
a bit thickly, in his drooping ear. “I ache all over, 
too. If I licked you, you certainly hammered me. I 
wouldn’t have done it—if I hadn’t just had to.” 

“He’ll be all right in the morning, ma’am,” Slim as¬ 
sured her. “Tarpy’ll take good care of him, and 
they’ll lead him in with the outfit when it follers us. 
Here’s the sorrel for you.” 

Hilda crawled wincingly into the saddle, with his 
help. At first every movement of the easy-gaited 
creature she rode was pain to her, and Slim watched 
anxiously. But soon she swung into the motion and 
her bruised, wearied body was forgotten in that fierce 
eagerness to “get there.” Slim, on a wiry, glass-eyed 
mustang, set the pace, and a stiff one it grew to be. 
There were scarcely two dozen words spoken as they 
put the miles behind them; both leaned forward eagerly 
in their saddles, Slim’s eyes always straight ahead, 
Hilda’s continually sweeping the levels about them. 
Long before they covered the distance, they saw a vast 
cloud of dust hanging on the horizon. 

“Stand it any faster?” Slim inquired. 

Hilda nodded, and they spurred up. The big dust 
cloud grew bigger and more palpable. 

“Looks like they’s a-havin’ a kind of a time,” com¬ 
mented Slim. “We mebbe could get a finger in the pie 
yet, if we shove ahead.” The glass-eyed mustang shot 
forward, Hilda and the sorrel hanging close at its 
quarter. 

“Oh, look!” said Hilda. A flurry of dust ap¬ 
proached them, out of which emerged several head of 
Flying M cattle, running staggeringly. Two or three 


HILDA AND THE BLUE ROAN 


225 


showed long, bloody scratches on head and breast or 
shoulders. 

“Bust through the bob-wire!” Slim rose in his stir¬ 
rups and swung his quirt, whooping shrilly. He and 
Hilda, between them, turned the animals and headed 
them back. Presently they met two more small 
bunches, which they turned in like manner and took 
with them. When they got within sight of the pasture 
where the Flying M stock had been worked that morn¬ 
ing, they saw that the herd was in a pretty well-estab¬ 
lished mill, the main bulk of the cattle sweeping in a 
great, brown, living, sweating circle. An occasional 
Three S man, or one of the Flying M hands, came gal¬ 
loping around on the edge of the surge. As Slim and 
Hilda rode gingerly across the prostrate fence, they 
heard a shot fired off to the right, toward the Ojo 
Bravo trail; another, then three in quick succession. 
Slim stopped like a pointer dog and threw his nose up, 
sighting in that direction. 

“Well, the colonel got there in time, that’s sure,” 
was his comment. 

Just then Burch came in sight, loping with the swing 
of the cattle. 

“Hello, Hilda!” he cried. “You made it all right.” 

They put their horses in alongside him and moved 
with him while he told them, in a few quick sentences: 

“Uncle Hank stampeded the cattle—only thing he 
could do—shook a blanket. We weren’t fixed to open 
fight—not a gun amongst us—them all armed. The 
cattle commenced to run, and everybody flew in to turn 
’em and mill ’em. While we were at it, Uncle Hank 
rode up to me and hollered that the Flying M men 
were coming—and there was Marchbanks and the 
whole outfit. The rustlers cut and run for it.” 


226 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


‘‘What shooting was that we just heard, d’you 
reckon?’’ 

“The colonel and two of his men went after the 
rustlers—out yonder. They must have overhauled 
em. 

Burch rode on with the milling cattle, while Slim and 
Hilda pulled out. Presently Uncle Hank came to her 
and told her to go to the house and rest. 

“Oh, I couldn’t, Uncle Hank!” she declared. “Let 
me stay.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


ANOTHER CHANCE 


the afternoon wore on, Hilda, helping to gather 



strays, watching always the westward trail for 


Pearse, began to lose hope. The colonel had 
not come back from his chase of the rustlers, but his 
men were here; again Uncle Hank came to her to say 
that they were full-handed now—no need for her to 
half kill herself; she’d better get to the house, wash 
up and have something to eat. 

With her eyes on the way down which Pearse might 
have come, she said, in a discouraged tone: 

“I’ll go out just this once more; then I will give it 
up and ride to the house; I suppose my face does need 
washing. I don’t feel as if I could eat any supper. 
But I’ll be glad to get to bed to-night.” 

She rode alone, and very slowly. The whole broad 
plain was beginning to glow with sunset. But Hilda 
had no eyes for the glories of the sky; all she could see 
was the empty trail that stretched toward the golden 
rim in the west. Pearse hadn’t come—or she’d missed 
him. Back of her, as she halted, was a break of the 
creek—a deep, shadowy place of willows and wild 
plum. Well—she’d go down there and wash her face 
—she knew from the way Uncle Hank had looked at 
her that washing was badly needed. But when she 
turned her pony she saw that some one else was there; 
a horse was drinking at the creek; its rider looked 
sharply around as she came down the slope. 


227 


228 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


It was very dusky in the hollow. For a moment 
she wondered if she hadn’t stumbled onto one of the 
rustlers, or even overhauled Colonel Marchbanks, who 
had gone after them. Then the man pulled up his 
pony’s head, wheeled it and came toward her. She 
was in full light, he in shadow; she could only see that 
he was a big, broad-shouldered fellow, fair-haired, in 
the ordinary cow-boy dress, and she believed him to be 
some one she had never seen before until he came 
close, lifting his hat, with: 

“Why, it is Hilda—and I believe you don’t know 
me!” 

“Oh, Pearse!” In the first shock of delight, the re¬ 
lief from the long sense of disappointment, Hilda for¬ 
got her flying hair, her dust-streaked face. “Oh, 
Pearse—oh, Pearse!” 

He put his pony in close enough to shake hands, 
smiling at her a little oddly. And, all at once, she was 
shy of him, after all. He looked so terribly grown up. 
No, he wasn’t her Boy-On-The-Train any more. It 
made her catch her breath to remember the five days 
in the cyclone cellar, when he’d played games with her, 
and even taken a sort of hand at being a princely fugi¬ 
tive while she was a princess. This tall, dignified 
young man was different, too, from the big boy with 
the grouch who brought the Sunday pony back to her 
that time on the trail coming from El Capitan. 

“How did you get here without my seeing you?” 
she asked, a little breathlessly. “I was watching— 
right where you said—as well as I could. We’ve had 
a stampede, and—well, I guess you might call it rus¬ 
tlers—the Marchbanks cattle that we were pasturing 
on the Sorrows.” 

“Yes. I know.” Pearse gave her another of those 
queer looks. But he let it go at that and finished: “I 


ANOTHER CHANCE 


229 


circled around the short-cut to get here. Didn’t want 
to be seen.” 

“Who—who didn’t you want to see you, Pearse?” 
Hilda asked humbly. “Uncle Hank?” 

He shook his head. 

“Not that I’d mind going over to the ranch and 
speaking to him to-day. I’m in no trouble. I’d not be 
asking anything of him. It’s Marchbanks that I don’t 
want to see me this time, or know I’m in Lame Jones 
County.” 

“Oh,” said Hilda. Then, “Listen, Pearse. Pull 
back in here, if you mean to keep out of sight.” 

Hoof-beats coming from two directions on the trail. 
Hilda and Pearse, drawn close in the shelter of the 
willows, saw the big gray pony that Colonel March- 
banks rode splash through the creek. Just on the 
further side he stopped. The other rider came on. As 
Hilda peered through the screening branches, she saw 
the young fellow that she’d been sure was Fayte 
Marchbanks pull up and meet the rider of the gray 
pony. 

“Fayte!” she heard the colonel call. The young 
man jerked off his hat in a sarcastic bow and answered, 
hardily: 

“It’s nobody else, Dad.” 

“Where do you think you’re going?” the colonel 
snarled. “Turn that pony and ride after the men you 
were helping to rob me. Go with them. You can’t 
stay here.” 

“You’re mistaken there.” Fayte spoke confidently, 
but there was fear in the glance that flickered to his 
father’s face. “I was with those men, all right. But 
we didn’t get the cattle. I’m staying with what’s 
mine.” 

“Yours?” The colonel’s tone was loud, furious. 


230 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“You haven’t got a cent but what I give you. You—” 

“Just so.” Fayte had out his tobacco and was roll¬ 
ing a cigarette. Hilda saw how the fingers shook, but 
his eyes were impudent. “That’s the way you look at 
it. You treat me like a child. I’m not standing for it. 
A man of my age has debts that he doesn’t care to go 
to his daddy with. If you’d give me what belongs to 
me—I wouldn’t try to take it.” 

“You’ve got a big idea of what belongs to you,” the 
colonel growled. “Get out of my sight. What do you 
suppose Pearsall and the others are saying, back 
there?” 

“Quien sabe?” Fayte shrugged, but he threw away 
the cigarette he had not even attempted to light. 
“Hadn’t we better ride back together—show ’em it’s 
all right?” 

He still spoke confidently, and started his pony for¬ 
ward with a swing, but the watchers both recognized 
his relief as the colonel, after a little hesitation, 
wheeled his heavier mount into the trail after him. 
They went off quarreling—but they went together. 

Hilda and Pearse sat on their ponies, hidden, where 
they were, till the sound of hoofs died away, then rode 
out. Pearse glanced about, and said, uncomfortably: 

“We won’t have much time together, Hilda; I’ve 
got to be on my way. But I’ll ride along with you in 
the direction of the house. You need to get home.” 

Slowly they took a little cross-cut Hilda knew of. 
Pearse spoke again, frowning: 

“I’d rather not have seen or heard that, myself. 
You see, Hilda, the colonel’s a member of the Cattle¬ 
men’s Protective Association; my company’s in it, too, 
of course, and I’m here representing them. We’ve run 
up against crooked stuff that Fayte Marchbanks was 
connected with before, and we always have to back 


ANOTHER CHANCE 


231 


away from it, because of the colonel. Anyhow I’ll 
make my report; and they won’t move because it con¬ 
cerns the colonel’s own cattle, and he’ll have to settle 
it as a family affair.” 

“You—you said when I saw you on the trail, that 
time you brought Sunday back, that you knew May- 
belle Marchbanks.” Hilda was, unconsciously, trying 
to bring some more personal interest into the talk. “I 
used to know her over here in Lame Tones County.” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you like her?” 

“Oh,” negligently, “I hardly know her enough to 
say. There’s mighty little doing between our ranch 
and the Marchbanks place.” 

“Is she very pretty?” Hilda asked the girl’s ques¬ 
tion, and reddened as Pearse answered, with a smile: 

“You can tell whether she’s pretty or not by Fayte’s 
looks—they’re a good deal alike.” 

Hilda thought Maybelle might be very good-look¬ 
ing, indeed, but some instinct kept her from saying so. 

“Are there other young folks over where you’re 
living now?” She put it rather wistfully. 

“Yes, plenty of them,” returned Pearse, and some¬ 
how Hilda felt chilled. 

“Who?” 

“Oh, most of the ranches have young folks on them. 
Our manager has a niece visiting him just now, from 
Galveston. She plays the piano beautifully.” 

Hilda—tired, bedraggled, a truant at the music les¬ 
sons—suddenly hated that girl from Galveston—and 
was ashamed of herself for the hatred—and couldn’t 
be content till she had more details for that hatred to 
feed on. 

“Is she pretty?” 

“Our manager’s niece? Yes. Very.” 


232 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Does she know Fayte Marchbanks?” 

“Why, yes—I suppose she does.” 

“Does she like him?” 

“Why, Hilda—what possesses my little pal? Miss 
Esmond is a young lady—you understand—a grown 
young lady. Fayte Marchbanks has called on her once 
or twice since she’s been at the ranch. I think she 
knew him in Galveston. He speaks good Spanish, 
she’s traveled a whole lot in Old Mexico and likes to 
talk to some one who speaks the language well. That’s 
all there is to it. Most of the nice girls out our way— 
young ladies, I mean, of course—keep Fayte March- 
banks at a distance, I think.” 

They all knew each other; they spoke languages flu¬ 
ently; they had unforbidden companionship with 
Pearse, and he with them. She was an exile from it 
all. 

“I never get to go anywhere or see anybody,” said 
Hilda, gathering up her reins as though to start her 
pony ahead faster. “I haven’t got any friends of my 
own age.” 

“You haven’t?” groped Pearse, taken aback—“I 
thought you told me about youngsters on the Capadine 
ranch that you played with.” 

There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence after 
that “youngsters,” a silence in which Hilda was con¬ 
scious mostly of a tired, aching body and smarting 
cheeks. Then she spoke again, in a small choked 
voice: 

“I must be getting home.” 

“I’ll ride as far as I dare with you,” said Pearse, 
alert, concerned, but all in the dark. “I wish we could 
have had more of a visit together.” 

“Oh!” Hilda turned on him tear-blinded, angry 
eyes, “you needn’t bother to come any further. I can 


ANOTHER CHANCE 


233 


just play with youngsters, I suppose!” She lifted 
the rein and was off at a gallop, and she never looked 
back to see how he took that blow. 

She didn’t look back. She wouldn’t look back. But, 
after the first, she went very slowly. Any one who’d 
wanted to could have overtaken her in a minute. Al¬ 
most walking her pony that way made her late. Sup¬ 
per was over. She went in, head down, moving with 
dragging steps. She felt beaten and bruised; sun¬ 
burned till she was almost in a fever. To these things 
she was more or less accustomed; a night of sound 
sleep would put them right; but the wounds of that in¬ 
terview with Pearse were new and terrifying; the sting 
of chagrin that it had left upon the face of her spirit 
was intolerable. That parting cut she had aimed at 
him was, by some cruel magic, cleaving her own heart 
now. It ached and bled. How could she ever bear it? 

She washed up, stumbled into Sam Kee’s kitchen and 
sat down at his little table to eat the supper he had 
saved for her. The old Chinaman turned from the 
stove, where he was stirring something, intending to 
give her one of his grumbling scoldings. When he saw 
how worsted she looked, how she sipped at her coffee 
and ate almost nothing, he went instead and fetched a 
little dish of lemon jelly from the pantry, saying, more 
in sympathy than reproach: 

“Sam Kee tell you blue horse debbil. Tell you he 
kill you.” 

“I had to ride him,” murmured Hilda absently. 

Oh, it hurt dreadfully to be angry at Pearse—to feel 
bitter toward him. If she had a chance to talk with 
him now—only for a minute—only a minute—she 
would put her pride in her pocket and make it all right 
at any cost. 

She shoved the lemon jelly away; then, catching Sam 


234 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Kee’s crestfallen look, drew it back and ate a little 
of it. 

“That’s all, Sam,” she said, trying to smile. “Can’t 
eat any more now. Too tired. Go to bed now.” 

But as she was on her way to the stair’s foot, Hank’s 
voice called to her from the office: 

“Come in here a minute, Pettie—I’ve got something 
to tell you that won’t keep till morning.” 

She went in and sat down on the low stool near his 
chair, leaning over against his arm. Every line of her 
slim figure drooped; the arms hung listlessly at her 
sides. 

“Pettie!” he said, in quick alarm. “Anything the 
matter, honey?” 

“Oh, I stayed out too long. I’m perfectly dog tired. 
That’s all.” 

“Umm-humm,” agreed the old man gently, “I 
should think you would be. When I went to the cor¬ 
ral this evening I seen what horse it was you rode to 
Tres Pinos” 

Eyes down, Hilda waited for the reproof. She was 
at that dead ebb, physical, mental, emotional, that 
could expect nothing but blame, defeat. 

“Mose was the only one that could get there,” she 
said, lifelessly, offering it as a statement, not a defense. 

“Why, I’m not mad at you about it, honey.” The 
old man’s voice was soft. “I’m proud of you. You 
asked for the horse in the first place—he’s your’n 
now.” 

A little tingle of delight stirred the flat level of 
Hilda’s depression. 

“You said he wouldn’t be fit for a lady for three 
years,” she began, and then broke off—“but then I’m 
not a lady. I suppose I’m just one of the youngsters. 


ANOTHER CHANCE 


235 


I can’t play decently on the piano, or—speak good 
Spanish—or any of those things. Maybe I never will.” 

Uncle Hank looked at her in blank amazement. 
When he spoke there was sort of a reluctance in his 
voice. 

“The—er—what I wanted to say to you just now 
has got something to do with that—” 

She looked up at him, a little startled. 

“—That matter of education, I mean. Colonel 
Marchbanks rode in pretty soon after you left the pas¬ 
ture. Brought that boy of his with him; made some 
kind of a talk about Fayte having been mistaken in the 
day he wanted them cows moved, but that he’d give 
the boy orders to meet him here and to help him and 
—well, Pettie, what is a man to say? Best we can do 
is to forget that we had any suspicions. He’s gone 
on now to Amarillo—to be back here in about a 
week.” 

“Yes?” 

Hilda had dropped her head once more; she did not 
raise it now. After a short pause, in which Hank re¬ 
garded anxiously the bit of her face which he could see, 
he went on: 

“The colonel’s taken a great liking to you, Pettie. 
He praised you high.” 

This was Uncle Hank’s medicine for her depression. 
She managed a smile. But he was not done. The tone 
in which he proceeded suggested careful restraint. He 
did not look at her. 

“Marchbanks has asked for you to go and stay at 
his ranch for a year—or as much longer as we’re will¬ 
ing to have you—and study under a good teacher with 
his daughter, Maybelle. Course, I wasn’t making any 
such arrangements as that; but I talked it over with 


236 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


him—on a business basis, you know. We settled what 
your board would be and what our share of the teach¬ 
er’s pay ought to come to—if you went.” 

Every line in Hilda’s figure had begun to change. 
She fetched a long breath. The dusty feet were drawn 
back under her; slowly the drooping shoulders 
straightened; her head lifted; in the eyes that sought 
the old man’s face light was growing. 

“Oh,” she breathed—“oh, Uncle Hank!” 

Hank had expected at least some reluctance on his 
girl’s part to leave the ranch. She’d had solid school¬ 
ing, gone flying through the grammar grades, was well 
grounded in all the essentials now. To every propo¬ 
sition for further education she’d always said that she 
expected to be a ranchwoman, and, beyond what she 
had already, reading would have to take the place of 
schooling. But now, as he studied the tremulous face, 
he saw there would be a different answer, and he said 
quietly: 

“That teacher’s a college graduate—the best to be 
had. She could get you ready for any college in the 
country, I reckon.” 

Hilda lowered her eyes hastily. 

“I—I liked Maybelle,” she said, speaking very low. 
“Isn’t it—a pretty name—Uncle Hank?” 

“Right nice,” agreed Hank, suppressing a twinge— 
his girl, like any other girl, was looking for young 
companionship; that’s what made her eager for the 
New Mexico trip, and change. 

Hilda, her eyes held defensively down, was flying 
back in thought to that unspoken prayer of hers for 
another minute—only a minute—another chance to 
pocket her pride and make it all right with Pearse. 
Hank watched her, puzzled. 


ANOTHER CHANCE 


237 


“Er—you’re pleased, ain’t you, honey? You want 
to go—don’t you?” 

Hilda started, and the look flashed up at him was 
almost like terror. 

“Oh, yes!” she cried. “Why—doesn’t it come in 
splendidly? Aren’t you glad?” 

“Well,” said the old man mildly, “seeing that it 
makes you that-a-way, I reckon I am. You see,” he 
took the slim hands that came out anxiously toward 
him, “you see, when the colonel first named it to me, 
I felt sort of doubtful, but now I know. You’ve 
showed me.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


YOUNG WINGS 


HERE was no going to bed for Hilda now. 



Once out of Uncle Hank’s sight, she turned 


and ran noiselessly through the dim, empty, 
clean-smelling kitchen to the cyclone cellar, lighted her 
candle and began, with feverish eagerness, a letter to 
Pearse. She was tingling with a joy that had to ex¬ 
press itself; all thought of her unsatisfactory talk with 
Pearse was swept away or changed. He’d be as glad 
of this chance to see her, where they could openly be 
friends, as she was. 

Out over the page bubbled her child’s heart, which 
was scarcely yet the young girl’s heart, accusing her¬ 
self—“I was horrid”—“I know you’ll forgive me”— 
“just cross and tired”—“and hate to have to meet you 
on the sly.” She was almost drowned in the wonder¬ 
fulness of the thought that at last they were to be to¬ 
gether without deceit and without fear. The delight 
of it singing in her veins, she wrote with impulsive con¬ 
fidence. “Won’t it be lovely not to have to hide or 
tell any fibs, and to have our visit out at last? I have 
so many books I want to talk over with you. I have 
read all of Dickens—have you? Which one do you 
think is the best? Of course the critics praise ‘David 
Copperfield,’ but I love ‘Tale of Two Cities.’ I can’t 
ever read that last chapter without crying, and I’ve 
read it very, very many times.” 

So, in sheer joy of heart, the letter ran on and on. 
It was nearly ten o’clock when it was finally stamped 


YOUNG WINGS 


239 


and addressed, and she slipped upstairs to find Burch 
in the front hall calling excitedly for Uncle Hank, who 
was just going up the stairs to his own room. 

“I tell you I saw it just as plain as I see that lamp. 
Buster saw it, too.” 

“I reckon it was the lamp—the shine of it through 
the winder, you know,” Hank argued calmly. “Don’t 
disturb your auntie.” 

“What was it, Buddie?” inquired Hilda. 

“A fire, out there in the brush by the irrigating 
ditch,” Burch replied, glad to have a listener who 
might display some excitement. “Buster and I were 
coming over from the bunk-house, and we saw it in that 
vine there, all blazing. We ran as hard as we could 
and hollered to the boys to bring a bucket—and just 
before we got there it suddenly went out.” 

“Why, that’s queer,” laughed Hilda nervously. 
How careless of her to have forgotten the open shut¬ 
ter ! 

The letter was sent. She could not put it into the 
general mail. The secrecy she felt obliged to maintain 
brought some small twinges of conscience; yet it con¬ 
tributed an added thrill, too. She gave the missive to 
Sam Kee and asked him to post it when he went in to 
Dawn the next day. 

There followed a time of anxious waiting. It 
seemed to Hilda that discovery would be certain if the 
letter came after she was gone and had to be for¬ 
warded. It worried her all the time she was getting 
ready, but the day before Colonel Marchbanks was 
due from Amarillo an envelope, addressed to Hilda in 
the fine, bold hand, arrived. As Uncle Hank sorted 
the letters over and apportioned them, she felt that 
the appearance of this one must shout aloud to him the 
name and all the marvelous, romantic history of its 


240 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


writer. She snatched it so swiftly that she had to be 
called back to get a magazine and picture postal card 
which completed her portion. It was only in her own 
room, with the door locked, that she dared open and 
read. It began abruptly: 

“Well, Hilda, I’m afraid you and I can see very 
little of each other while you’re in Encinal County. So 
far as I am concerned, you might almost as well be at 
the Three Sorrows.” 

Hilda stopped there. She wasn’t going to cry. 
Nothing to cry about. Her glance came back to the 
letter. There was one more sheet. She turned the 
page and read: 

“I probably didn’t make it clear to you about how I 
stand with the Marchbanks family. I get along with¬ 
out the people at the Alamositas, and they worry along 
without me; I couldn’t go to see you there, Hilda, or 
take rides with you, and I think you will stand better 
with them if you don’t tell them that you and I are 
friends—or acquainted at all, for that matter.” 

At about this point of the reading, Hilda raised her 
head and looked around. Her eyes were bright and 
dry, and her cheeks glowed like lire. This was 
Pearse’s answer to her childish, impulsive letter, to the 
reminders of the time she sheltered him in the cyclone 
cellar. Hilda was as generous as an Arab. She didn’t 
want his gratitude—but, oh, she burned with an intol¬ 
erable humiliation at this lack of return for her friend¬ 
ship ! And yet the letter was not unfriendly. In con¬ 
clusion, he spoke earnestly, urgently, of the value of a 
good education; said how sorry he was that his own 
had been broken off early, and how it delighted him to 
know that she was to have better opportunities than 
his had been. This was the closing paragraph: 

“I was awfully sorry to learn from your letter that 


YOUNG WINGS 


241 


you were so lonely, and had no young friends. But 
your coming over to the Alamositas will make that all 
right. They say Maybelle’s a very nice girl, and I hear 
they have a great deal of young company at the ranch; 
only, little girl as you are, I’m glad Fayte March- 
banks isn’t at home now, or likely to be back, it seems, 
while you are there. He’s not the sort of fellow for 
you to make a friend of.” 

That was about all. He hadn’t thought worth 
while to say anything about the books she wanted to 
discuss with him. He might have written about them. 
They could have corresponded while she was at the 
Alamositas, anyhow. She drew her wounded girl’s 
pride about her with the declaration that she would 
never mention Pearse again to any one, never write to 
him again nor make any effort to see him. Then she 
thought miserably that this was what he had advised 
her to do in the letter. Her heart sank to the ulti¬ 
mate zero. 

Meantime Hank had his own worries. A year’s 
stay on a big, prosperous ranch like the Alamositas, 
within easy distance of more than one small New 
Mexican town—and he knew well how it went with 
young folks in a ranching community, where it is out 
of the question to draw any hard-and-fast social line. 
Quick courtships—even the ill-considered marriages of 
boys and girls who were scarcely more than children— 
those were the things that came about under such an 
arrangement. He was full of anxiety for his girl; she 
must not be sent unwarned into that sort of thing. He 
finally mustered up courage to go to Miss Valeria and 
say that, under the circumstances, he felt she ought to 
talk to Hilda about “goin’ with the boys” and such 
things before they let her leave for New Mexico. 

The little lady listened to him with a bewildered air, 


242 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


which finally gave way to an embarrassed laugh. When 
he’d said his say, she dismissed the whole matter airily 
with: 

“But, Mr. Pearsall, the child isn’t ‘out’ yet.” 

“No,” agreed Hank seriously, “but she’s a-goin’ 
out to-morrow, when Marchbanks comes through for 
her.” 

“You don’t understand me,” Miss Val said. “You 
don’t get my meaning. At home, in New York, we 
used that expression—” She broke off, drew her brows 
a little, and the bright black eyes behind the glasses 
studied the ranch boss a moment before she went on: 
“Hilda’s a schoolgirl—she goes to Mr. Marchbanks’ 
as a schoolgirl. She’s not out in society. Naturally, 
she won’t be thinking of any of those matters you 
mention. I certainly shouldn’t bring them up in talk¬ 
ing to her—it might put foolish ideas into her head.” 

“You won’t take it on you to speak to her?” Hank 
asked. 

“Certainly not. Those people—the Marchbankses 
—have a daughter near Hilda’s age. Of course, May- 
belle Marchbanks isn’t out yet, either. I remember 
the child when she was here, visiting the Capadine 
ranch. Mrs. Marchbanks can be trusted, I am sure, 
with the management of the social affairs of two school¬ 
girls. Why, Mr. Pearsall, in New York we shouldn’t 
be thinking, much less speaking, of such things in con¬ 
nection with Hilda for—for some time yet. It is the 
custom there, you know, to introduce a girl to society 
—when she is through with her schooling, and has had, 
perhaps, some travel abroad—at a ball or other large 
affair. They tell me that now a luncheon or a tea is 
more usual. I haven’t begun to trouble my head yet 
about which would be nicest for Hilda—when the time 


YOUNG WINGS 243 

comes. But I’ll attend to all that. I’ll attend to it, 
Mr. Pearsall. Don’t give it another thought.” 

Hank backed away, nodding. When Miss Val be¬ 
gan talking New York— Well, he could hear her 
words; but, as for getting any sense out of them— 

“I’ve got to do it myself,” he reflected, with some 
misgiving. “Lord, send me the right words.” 

He was fumbling after those right words on the 
evening of that day, as he sat beside Hilda in the after¬ 
glow on the side door-stone—the spot where he and 
she had lingered so often to exchange deep confidences. 
He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was 
like a young bird with trembling wings lifted for flight. 
Yet there was pathos in her face too. And to that he 
had not the clew of Pearse Masters’ letter in her 
pocket. 

“Pettie,” he began, looking out over the plain to 
where the planet of love hung luminous in the sky, “I 
spoke to your aunt about saying some little things to 
you that ought to come to a girl easier from her 
women-folks than from any one else; and—she said 
best not to put it into your head. Now, honey-girl, I 
know that if your own folks don’t do it, there’ll be 
them that will—and anybody that does, will be the 
wrong person.” 

There was a startled silence between them. Hilda 
turned eyes that were a bit frightened to his grave 
face. She had understood at once what it was of which 
he wished to speak. 

“The wrong person?” She echoed him falteringly. 

“Yes,” he said, “the wrong person.” He looked 
fondly at the slim shape beside him. Hilda’s head 
was now turned away; he got only the outline of one 
thin, brown cheek; he couldn’t see the look that was in 


244 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 

the big, black, long-lashed eyes—nor that Hilda had 
turned them away from him because she herself was 
afraid that look was in them. “You’re only a little 
gi r l— as yet,” he repeated it, as though by repetition 
he meant to make it true. “And still we’re bound to 
remember that there’ll be plenty of young fellers over 
there to notice you—and for you to notice. That’s 
what I’m trying to speak to you about, honey—and I 
ain’t finding it easy.” 

A quick glance from Hilda; she hated to trouble 
Uncle Hank this way. She tried to help him out 
with: 

“Fayte’s not going to be there—at first, anyhow. 
His father said he was sending him into Old Mexico 
—on business—he might not be back for nearly a 
year.” 

Uncle Hank put that by with a little wave of the 
hand. Fayte’s connection with the rustlers was under¬ 
stood by every man on the Sorrows; his father’s lame 
explanation that the boy had been deceived by the gang 
was accepted silently. This sending him off to Mexico 
till the talk blew over was the best Marchbanks could 
do. 

“I ain’t thinking about that feller,” Uncle Hank 
said. “You’d not make a friend of him—though in 
front of his folks you’d have to treat him nice. I 
trust you to handle that. You’re young, Pettie, but 
you’ve got good judgment. Just take what I’m saying 
as mostly a warning to any young person going out 
among strangers. Your way is paid over there. I 
wouldn’t take nothing for you as a gift from March- 
banks, though he wanted me to. I intended you should 
be free and independent, like your father’s daughter 
ought to be. Anything you don’t like—you can just 
pick up and come home.” 


YOUNG WINGS 245 

Hilda’s hand went instinctively to her pocket. Uncle 
Hank talked a good deal like the letter there. 

“Oh, well,” she said, half bitterly, “if I’m such a 
child, Aunt Val must be right; you won’t need to talk 
to me about—about these things for years yet.” 

Hank could not remember when Hilda had ever 
spoken to him like that. He couldn’t know that she 
was answering Pearse’s letter, making her little stand 
of maiden dignity with Pearse. 

“Think so?” he asked gently. “I’m afraid you’re 
mistaken, Pettie. You’ll find yourself a grown-up 
young lady all of a sudden—and then maybe some of 
the things you have allowed to hang about will make 
trouble.” 

Hilda’s only answer was a sort of inarticulate sound. 
Presently the old man spoke again. 

“These here common working people marry very 
young, Pettie,” holding the slim wrist and tapping his 
own palm with her hand. “That’s natural, and right 
enough. You see how they live; there’s nothing to 
keep them from marriage. They don’t have to have 
education, like Charley Van Brunt’s daughter. I see 
now that I myself didn’t look at this thing right; 
seemed to me you was getting—or had got—pretty 
well all the learning you’d need—the reading of books 
and such to sort of fill out. I thought you felt that 
way, too, but the way you’ve took up with this idea of 
going over to the Marchbanks place shows me differ¬ 
ent.” / 

“Oh, Uncle Hank!” Hilda protested, in a misery of 
self-condemnation. What would he think if he knew 
that most of the rapture over the idea of going to the 
Alamositas had been because of what he’d call “a 
young feller,” who was working on an adjoining ranch? 
And she couldn’t tell him any part of it. The whole 


246 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 

cyclone-cellar matter would have to come out, If she 
told him any. And it wasn’t her secret. It concerned 
Pearse. Pearse had a right to say whether it should 
be told or not. She didn’t examine very closely into 
her own feeling as to whether she would have told 
Uncle Hank if she’d felt free to. She let that go. He 
was speaking: 

“I’ve always been so sort of drove for ready cash— 
and not liking to sell more cattle than needful, or to 
hitch any mortgages onto the old Sorrows. You 
haven’t had a heap of things you ought.” 

“Oh, Uncle Hank—” the girl broke out again; he 
silenced her gently, and went on: 

“But you have had pretty good schooling, and I do 
think that by the time you’re through your work out 
yonder I can have the money to send you to college. 
Then, when you’re graduated and got your papers to 
show for it, we’ll talk about a European tower. Miss 
Valery seems to think that would be about the figger. 
I believe we can cover it for you. The ranch is doing 
better every year. It’s coming up, Pettie, hand over 
fist. If that railroad should go through, as it seems 
it might, we’ll all be rich before you know it. Even if 
it don’t, I haven’t a doubt but I’ll be ready to put up 
the money—your money, of course, you understand, 
girl—for you and your aunt to go a-traveling, and for 
the biggest kind of a baile —or whatever shindig Miss 
Valery speaks for—when you git back—a young lady. 
Ain’t that a bright prospect?” 

The childish hand, hard from much horseback rid¬ 
ing, with a good firm grip in its slim fingers, trembled 
in his, as Hilda answered: 

“Yes, Uncle Hank; I’ll do my best!” 

He seemed scarcely to hear her. 

“You’re going out there—plumb away from me—to 


YOUNG WINGS 


247 


a new life, at least for a spell. We don’t neither of 
us know what you may run onto, honey. I’m just 
obliged to feel a—to—well, to fix it so’t you’d see that 
your Uncle Hank would understand—do you see what 
I’m driving at, Pettie?” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“Well, then, I’m a-going to tell you some things 
about myself—things I’ve never spoke to any one 
about. I expect you don’t know your Uncle Hank was 
married?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Johnnie told me—that time she made 
the first dresses for me.” 

Hilda spoke low, for Mrs. Johnnie was even then at 
the Sorrows, making the sewing machine hum while 
she got Hilda’s outfit ready. Mrs. Johnnie had stood 
out for one “party dress” and constructed it from some 
uncut silks Miss Valeria had. That party dress, and 
some things Mrs. Johnnie had tried on, seemed to 
make Uncle Hank’s warnings not unreasonable. He 
stroked the little hand he held with steady fingers. 

“She died,” he repeated, “but it wasn’t that that 
broke my heart so; any man might lose his wife by 
death.” He was silent a long minute; then he began 
on a louder note, as though resolved to go through 
with a painful thing: “You see, Pettie, she was a girl 
that I knew back where I was raised, in the Tennessee 
mountains. It’s what happened to her that I want to 
tell you, so’s you get my meaning.” 

He sat silent for a moment. Hilda waited breath¬ 
lessly. Then he went on: 

“Mattie’s folks was well to do. They sent her down 
to the valley school—sorta like our sending you over 
to the Alamositas; see, Pettie? She ran away with a 
feller, from the school. It was a boy we all knowed 
•—Judge Moseley’s son. He was in school himself at 


248 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


the time. She was just a little thing, younger than you 
are now. I had my mother, and the farm and the rais¬ 
ing of my younger brothers and sisters on my hands; 
hadn’t aimed to name marriage to Mattie at that time; 
but I never thought of any one else; and when she ran 
off with that Moseley boy, seemed to me my heart was 
broke smack in two. I got things settled for Ma and 
the young ’uns and lit out to Texas—that’s where a 
Tennessee boy goes usually to better himself. I done 
well. My part of it ain’t what I want you to notice, 
Pettie. It’s Mattie’s part that means something to a 
girl. It was seven years from that time I left Tennes¬ 
see till I saw her again. And how do you think I saw 
her next time?” 

He glanced up. Hilda was all eyes, all attention. 

“Her and Alf came through my ranch—movers. 
You know what that means, Pettie. We don’t get so 
many of them on the Sorrows, being off the main line 
of travel, but you’ve seen ’em—a ramshackle old 
wagon, a ga’nted team, a man on the driver’s seat, 
looking out ahead of him, clear into the nevertheless, 
never noticing that the woman and children he’s drag¬ 
ging around with him from place to place—no home, 
no comforts, no nothing—are just about perishing on 
his hands. Yes, that’s what Alf Moseley had come to 
be—a mover. He had the itchy foot. You can’t do 
nothing for one of them fellers. And Mattie—at 
twenty-four or five—Mattie was an old, broke-down 
woman. 

“They had but one child—and Mattie had named 
him for me—Henry Pearsall Moseley. They stayed 
at my place longer than movers usually stops. I 
offered Alf a partnership, but he was aimin’ to strike 
toward the Rio Grande, and what I could offer 
wouldn’t hold him. But they stayed long enough, even 


YOUNG WINGS 


249 


that time, for my heart to get just wrapped around 
that little feller that was named for me. He was four 
years old, and the finest boy of his age that I ever put 
my eyes on—bar none. Well, after that they come and 
went, as you may say. No harm to Alf, he didn’t 
think no more of his own comfort than he did of the 
horses he drove or poor Mattie. Except for the time 
they went into the bottom country, the baby, Harry, 
throve well. They’d use my ranch for a stopping place 
when they couldn’t git no further—had lost a horse or 
such. And finally, at the end of the Brazos bottom 
trip, when Alf was dead—climate in there killed him— 
and all but killed Mattie—she sent for me, and I went 
and got her and the boy. 

“We was married before we started on the return 
trip. It was the only arrangement to make. Mattie 
—any girl that thinks she’ll run away from school and 
marry some lively boy that she don’t know how he’ll 
turn out—well, I wish such a girl could have seen and 
heard my poor Mattie on her trip back to the ranch 
with me. She never mended in health, Pettie. I done 
everything I could, even to sending her back east—and 
it mighty nigh pulled the heart out of my breast to part 
with the boy. He hugged me ’round the neck with his 
little short arms and promised he’d take good care of 
his mother and bring her right back to me as soon as 
she was well.” 

“Oh, Uncle Hank!” whispered Hilda, leaning her 
head against his arm. 

“But she never come back. She died. At the time, 
I wasn’t where I could have the boy with me, as it 
seemed. Jeff Aiken—husband of Mattie’s sister— 
wrote that he had the little chap in school, that he was 
doing terrible well, and that it was Mattie’s wish that 
he should stay there. I sent the money for him, same 


250 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 

as I’d been sending it to Mattie. Everything I had 
was for him—till— But that ain’t what I started out 
to tell you. That’s just an old man’s sorrow, and the 
thing that broke me all up and took my ranch and 
left me the lonesomest somebody in Texas.” 

“You hadn’t any v one left, had you, Uncle Hank?” 
Hilda found voice to say finally, when it seemed the 
old man would not go on. 

“No. I hadn’t nobody. But I’ll tell you how that 
come, some other time, Pettie. What I’m trying to 
get you to notice now is that my poor Mattie ruined 
her life when she ran away from school to marry. 
She’d never have took Alf Moseley when she was 
older and had her full sense. It was the thing being 
secret—meeting Alf out without nobody knowing— 
and thinking it was great—that got her into it. That’s 
what I’m warning you against.” 

Hilda nodded. She couldn’t get out a word, so she 
just nodded. What would Uncle Hank think if he 
knew about Pearse Masters and the cyclone cellar? 
But that was in the past. And suddenly the knowl¬ 
edge that she would have been glad of secret meetings 
with Pearse over at the Alamositas—that it was only 
his letter, showing that there was to be nothing of the 
sort, that had taken all the glow out of going—brought 
the tears. Uncle Hank was very penitent when he 
saw them. 

“Don’t cry, honey,” he begged, patting her arm. 
“Nothing to cry about. All these troubles I been talk¬ 
ing of is in the past. Mebbe I shouldn’t ’a’ named ’em 
to you. You got bright prospects ahead. You’ll be 
mighty happy over there, with a nice girl of your own 
age to go with, and a first-class teacher.” 

“Let’s give it up, Uncle Hank,” she said chokingly. 
“I don’t want to go. I don’t care about the education 


YOUNG WINGS 


251 


or—or anything that there is over there in New 
Mexico. Really, I don’t. I’d rather stay here—at 
the Sorrows—with you.” 

Hilda wiped her eyes and showed as clear a coun¬ 
tenance as she could and drew up to face him. One 
of the boys came whistling along the path from the 
bunk-house. Sam Kee opened his kitchen door and 
threw out a pan of water. 

“No, Pettie—no, you’re just tired—and a little 
scared to-night. Uncle Hank’s seen what it is you 
really do want—what you ought to have, anyhow. A 
chance to try your wings—to try your wings—” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


AT THE ALAMOSITAS 


TER all, going away from home for the first 



time when you’re nearly seventeen is a thrilling 


A business. Hilda was the sort to get joy even 
out of small things—and the change from the Three 
Sorrows to the Alamositas, though it was but from one 
great ranch to another, was not small. 

The Marchbanks ranch, most often called the Fly¬ 
ing M, for its brand, got its Spanish name of Alamo¬ 
sitas, “little cottonwood,” from the number of those 
trees which grew tall all along the Juanajara River, 
which wound sluggishly through many of its pastures. 
At the Alamositas, headquarters was almost like a 
small village, with a big main house of adobe, two- 
story, built Spanish-fashion, around a court; numerous 
bunk-houses for the men who worked for the March- 
bankses; manager’s quarters, a blacksmith shop and 
the ranch supply store; standing over across the trail, 
opposite the front gate; inviting all sorts of comers 
and goers. 

Hilda was given a large upstairs room all to her¬ 
self; it adjoined Maybelle’s, and she thought that 
would be nice, remembering vividly the plump little 
girl with whom she had played dolls in the tree roots 
on the lawn at the Sorrows. She found Maybelle 
Marchbanks still plump, and quite pretty; a year older 
than Hilda, she was very competent at all household 
matters, neat as wax, dressed quite like a young lady 


252 


AT THE ALAMOSITAS 


253 


and with a great deal of ornament. She could ride, of 
course, but not as Hilda could, and she left the inter¬ 
ests of the ranch to the men. She seemed to have for¬ 
gotten all about that earlier time, and even when Hilda 
reminded her she was vague with: 

“Oh, yes, I remember I was over in Lame Jones 
County once when I was a little girl—did I visit at 
your house?” It seemed to Hilda that so many inter¬ 
esting things had happened to this girl that it was per¬ 
fectly natural she should have forgotten. For from 
the first morning when Miss Ferguson opened lessons, 
Hilda sensed the cross-pull that there was here. The 
lively interfering tide came right over from the store 
porch, where young fellows in bullion-trimmed som¬ 
breros, high-heeled boots and clanking spurs, were apt 
to be on hand to intercept the girls if one of them ran 
across on an errand. And there was always an errand, 
when Maybelle saw any one she liked there. Some¬ 
times when she didn’t do that, one or more of the boys 
sauntered across to the ranch house, even looked in at 
the schoolroom window to say hello and ask when les¬ 
sons would be over. 

Miss Ferguson, the teacher, did the best she could. 
Hilda realized at once that here was some one who 
knew twice as much as Miss Belle or Miss Bobbie, 
who had taught Uncle Hank’s academy—a really good 
teacher from a well-known woman’s college in the 
East. But Mrs. Marchbanks didn’t seem to care how 
much the lessons were interrupted. It was almost as 
though she put greater emphasis on the girls having a 
good time. She had two lively, spoiled children of her 
own, Tod, the boy, seven, and Jinnie, five. Her im¬ 
mediate interest fastened upon Hilda’s looks. She had 
followed on to the room the first day, gone in with the 
two girls, sat down on the bed with Tod and Jinnie on 


254 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


each side of her, and gazed at the new member of her 
household with very admiring eyes. 

“Hilda, dear—I’m going to call you Hilda, of 
course—you ought always to wear white.” 

Hilda was pulling on a fresh blouse, making herself 
tidy for lunch. 

“I don’t mean just a shirt-waist—a thin dress, with 
your arms showing through a little. They are too 
sunburned now—you’ve been careless with them—but 
I can soon take that off with buttermilk. I would just 
love to see you dressed in a thin white dress with a 
dark red flower in your hair.” 

“Tod’s freckled like a hop-toad,” little red-headed 
Jinnie piped up, suddenly. “Muvver doesn’t take the 
freckles off of him with buttermilk. Could you, Muv¬ 
ver? Would they come off? I ast him once to let me 
scrub ’em off wiv sand—but he wouldn’t.” 

“Tod’s freckles don’t matter, Baby,” Mrs. March- 
banks laughed. “Tod’s not a beautiful young lady like 
Hilda.” 

“Oh—and I’m not a young lady—yet,” Hilda smiled 
and blushed, uncertain yet pleased. 

“Well, I wasn’t prepared to find you quite so grown 
up, or so lovely,” Mrs. Marchbanks rose and gathered 
up her youngsters to go, “though Fayte told me you 
were a mighty pretty girl. You and Fayte are going 
to be great friends—aren’t you?” 

Hilda didn’t know which way to look. Her con¬ 
fusion made Mrs. Marchbanks laugh, and she turned 
at the door to say, “You just wait till Fayte gets back; 
I’ll bet there’ll be a thin white dress found somewhere 
for you to wear, and a red flower for those dark 
curls.” 

Maybelle, listening silently, had a curious air; drop¬ 
ping her eyelids half over her eyes in a way that kept 


AT THE ALAMOSITAS 


255 


you from seeing any expression they had in them, but 
she shut the door after her step-mother and turned the 
key. 

“Ma’s silly about Fayte,” she said coolly. “Did you 
see him over at your place ?” And when Hilda nod¬ 
ded, “I think he’s mighty good looking—but when I 
say that, I praise myself. Don’t you think we look 
alike, Hilda? I wish he was going to be at home now 
—we always have a lot more fun when he’s here.” 

Hilda nodded inclusively. It seemed funny to know 
so much more than they seemed to about Fayte’s last 
visit to Lame Jones County. But, of course, she would 
never breathe a word of it to any one here on the 
Alamositas. She found herself, like Maybelle, a little 
sorry that Fayte wasn’t at home; it would have been 
interesting to see how he would meet her. She was 
pleased when Maybelle remarked, as they were going 
downstairs: 

“Pa said he’d sent Fayte to Old Mexico to be gone 
a year—and I’ll bet Fayte’ll be back in a week. He 
and Pa are always having blow-ups. Ma smooths ’em 
over for him.” 

It was some days later that Hilda came into the 
schoolroom one morning on an argument between Mrs. 
Marchbanks and the teacher. 

“I want to earn my salary,” Miss Ferguson was say¬ 
ing. “Teaching Tod and Jinnie doesn’t amount to 
anything. Such young children oughtn’t to have more 
than a half hour in the morning, and I’m not a kinder¬ 
garten teacher. But these girls—Hilda’s the kind that 
could take a fine education.” 

“Pooh! Hilda Van Brunt’ll be taking a husband— 
that’s what she’ll be taking—maybe sooner than any 
one thinks.” It was almost as though Mrs. March- 
banks had seen her, and wanted her to hear—almost 


256 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


as though she were speaking to Hilda herself, as she 
finished, “A girl like that is bound to marry young. 
She’d better hurry up and have all the good time she 
can before then. You keep the lessons along, Miss 
Ferguson; the girls can learn enough, and enjoy them¬ 
selves at the same time.” 

Hilda stole away, rather startled. If Uncle Hank 
had any idea what sort of views Mrs. Marchbanks 
held, would he have sent her, Hilda, to New Mexico? 
Well, it was done, and as for enjoying herself—that 
was exactly what she would enjoy—herself. So, in 
those first days, when there were long rides up into 
the mountains, for which Mrs. Marchbanks provided 
the lunch, and saw no harm in the two girls having two 
cowboy escorts, the frequent little gayeties at the house 
itself where some young fellows brought over a guitar 
and sat on the porch, with Mrs. Marchbanks bringing 
out lemonade and little cakes for the lively company— 
Hilda was sure she was just enjoying herself. It was 
lovely to be admired. She couldn’t look into eyes that 
told her how pretty she was without her own eyes 
sparkling. Resentfully she thought of Pearse Masters, 
who practically called her a silly little girl and told her 
to stay in the schoolroom. Even Uncle Hank—well, 
he couldn’t quite have known how things were going 
to be over here. This wasn’t what he meant when he 
talked to her that night on the door-stone. 

She took this first taste of a girl’s good time into 
that world of imagination which would always be hers, 
dreamed on it, as she always dreamed on the things 
that came to her; and she bloomed like a rose in the 
bellehood that was hers, for it was plain from the first 
that the new girl at the Alamositas carried all before 
her; Maybelle took second place. 

Six weeks after she left the Sorrows, Uncle Hank 


AT THE ALAMOSITAS 


257 


came over. Hilda, wildly excited, rode in to Juan 
Chico, the little town where the railway station was, 
to meet him and ride out to the ranch with him. Only 
six weeks—and he caught his breath as he looked at 
her. What was the great change? The persistent 
flattery of Mrs. Marchbanks, Maybelle’s example, had 
made her more careful of her appearance, yet, even if 
he had been able to place this, it would not have ac¬ 
counted for the new light in her eyes, the new confi¬ 
dence in her manner. Riding out she talked to him 
almost altogether about her studies. She was per¬ 
fectly sincere in that; Hilda had an eager mind, and 
she enjoyed the teaching of a woman who could show 
her that there was so much more in a mere education 
than she had ever thought. And when they got to the 
Alamositas it seemed just his little girl Hilda who in¬ 
troduced her Uncle Hank with a true child’s pride and 
delight to every member of the household, the cow- 
punchers, the very cats and dogs. 

But there was no concealing from Uncle Hank’s keen 
eyes the position she had instantly taken among the 
young men visitors in the house. That evening on the 
porch was like other evenings; a lot of boys in to see 
them, Maybelle, after a little joking and talk, wan¬ 
dering away to a quiet corner of the court with one 
of the callers, but Hilda surrounded by a noisy, com¬ 
petitive group. 

Mrs. Marchbanks, sitting beside Pearsall at the far 
end of the gallery, looked on approvingly. She seemed 
to expect equal pride and approval from the old man. 

“Hilda’s a regular heart breaker, Mr. Pearsall,” 
she sighed. 

“M-m,” grunted Uncle Hank, rather crusty, “I 
don’t know as I have much use for the heart-breaking 
business. I don’t want to see her’n broke.” 


258 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Oh—Hilda’s heart is in no danger!” Mrs. March- 
banks laughed a little. “Look over there. Safety in 
numbers, Mr. Pearsall. You won’t have to be un¬ 
easy about Hilda’s heart till some one of them cuts 
all the others out.” 

“I reckon you’re right.” Uncle Hank looked and 
smiled in spite of himself. Three young fellows and 
Hilda were disputing over the possibility of dancing 
in the court there, if two of the others, who looked 
sulkily on, would oblige with guitar and harmonica. 
His girl was all right, her eyes shining, her gay words 
flying, as the men quarreled heartily over who should 
have the first waltz with her when one of these reluc¬ 
tant idiots could be got to play a waltz. To Hank’s 
fond eyes she looked so very much alive in a world 
where so many are but half living—only going through 
the motions by a sort of formula—no wonder she was 
dangerously fascinating. 

“And when my boy gets home,” Mrs. Marchbanks 
was going on beside him, “there’ll be another. Fayte 
will be frantic about Hilda.” 

Hank was only stopping one day. Riding over to 
the station in the morning he had a final talk with 
Hilda, which seemed on the whole quite satisfactory, 
though again it gave him cause to smile. 

“Of course, Uncle Hank,” she said demurely, “I 
understand that you didn’t mean for me to sit about on 
the porch with young men and play grown-up, the way 
I’m doing here. I didn’t really intend to, myself, but 
somehow it—it just seems to happen.” 

She tilted her head on one side and looked across at 
the old man out of the corners of such liquid eyes, the 
up-curled lips were such threads of scarlet, as inquired 
of him how affairs of the heart were to be kept away 
from even a child of this mettle. 


AT THE ALAMOSITAS 


259 


“I expect you do all right, Pettie. I haven’t a doubt 
that you never say a word you wouldn’t be willing for 
your Uncle Hank to hear,” he suggested, a bit slyly. 

Hilda caught her breath. Then she glanced up 
swiftly and surprised a twinkle in his eyes. 

“You know I don’t—or—or do !” in some confusion. 
“I get as silly as the rest of them. Foolishness is all 
you can talk—it’s all they want to hear. But, Uncle 
Hank,” thrusting her pony in beside his to grasp his 
hand, enforcing her argument by small tugs on it, “it’s 
lots of fun. I’m going to tell you something dreadful 
about myself. There were two of them that used to 
come here a great deal, and they were awfully good 
friends. Now they hardly speak to each other, and” 
—the voice dropping to an exultant, half-terrified whis¬ 
per—“I did it.” 

“Hilda—you little skeezicks!” 

He swung onto the train; she waited and waved to 
him almost till it was out of sight, then rode rather 
soberly back to the Alamositas. She’d necessarily let 
him go without any hint that a great deal of her inter¬ 
est in the young fellows she played about with so freely 
was a hope that one of them—all of them—would 
carry the news of her conquests to another young fel¬ 
low, Pearse Masters by name, who hadn’t cared 
enough about her to even suggest that they might write 
each other, since she was living in a house where he 
could not be a guest. 

Uncle Hank’s visit changed nothing—he saw noth¬ 
ing to change. Hilda still studied fitfully, played ar¬ 
dently, endeared herself to her teacher—and appar¬ 
ently at the same time was endeared with more or less 
seriousness to six or eight of the young fellows about 
her. Mrs. Marchbanks had a knack for dress and 
ornament. She pulled Hilda’s hair down and did it 


260 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


over for her, teaching the girl all the little tricks that 
bring out beauty. Hilda, a beauty lover herself, 
caught these up easily. She’d never thought much 
about her own appearance. Aunt Val’s lectures said 
nothing about making herself attractive. Maybelle 
was the pink of neatness; not a bad example in that 
respect for any one to follow; if she used too much 
perfume and too many ornaments—why, you didn’t 
need to imitate her there. And Maybelle became in¬ 
teresting at once when she admitted that she’d met 
Pearse Masters several times at the big dances and 
picnics to which every one goes in the ranching coun¬ 
try, and that she thought he was awfully good looking. 

Hilda told herself that she had got over feeling 
bad about him; her friendship with Pearse was like a 
book that you shut and put away on a high shelf. She 
didn’t realize, herself, how many times she took that 
volume down and glanced into it with a good deal of 
regret, and that in spite of the fact that there were 
plenty of other volumes of the sort at hand, fairly 
begging her to read them. 

And one experience was coming nearer, though she 
didn’t know it. One day of moving air and mild sun 
she had ridden over alone to a side canon of the small, 
sluggish Juanajara River, to get resurrection plants. 
Her saddle-bags were full of the strange, dry-looking 
balls which she would later put in water and see open 
out green and prosperous. When she got home Tod 
Marchbanks met her at the corral, full of importance 
over his news. 

“My brother Fayte’s come back from Mexico,” he 
announced proudly. “An’ you ought to see the things! 
He brought me a hair bridle, an’ Jinnie lots of beads 
an’ such. Maybelle, he brought her joolry—Mex’can 
fildygree—an’ a scrape for Ma, an’ a sombrero for Pa 


AT THE ALAMOSITAS 


261 


that’s got a gre’ big silver snake round the crown. 
Hurry up—supper’s most ready.” 

Now for the meeting with Fayte Marchbanks! She 
wondered how he would carry it off! He must know 
what they all suspected him of back at the Sorrows. 
While she was slipping out of her riding habit and get¬ 
ting washed, she decided that the new white dress 
would be the one to put on. She did her hair very 
carefully, a little dissatisfied at its plainness, but timid 
of adding ornament for fear of seeming to dress up 
for the new arrival. Then, when she was ready and 
passing Mrs. Marchbanks’s door, that lady looked out 
and said: 

“Here’s a bunch of red geranium I saved for you, 
Hilda. It looks so well in your black hair.” 

“Oh, thank you I” Hilda nestled the fiery blooms 
in the dark curls just above the ear. “That’s awfully 
good of you.” And the two went downstairs together. 

They were late. Everybody was in the dining-room. 
Billy Grainger and two young men from Juan Chico 
were at the house for supper, but the first figure that 
caught Hilda’s eye as she entered the room she recog¬ 
nized instantly. There was no great change from the 
defiant, outlaw personality she remembered. He got 
up and came straight to her and was shaking hands 
before the colonel said: 

“Of course, you young folks know each other?” 

Mrs. Marchbanks, who had been talking to her 
step-son of Hilda’s beauty, her many charms and many 
admirers, gave him a triumphant glance as she saw the 
surprise with which he greeted the girl. He had 
laughed at her talk, remembering the slim tom-boy 
with a dust-streaked face and stringy hair who made 
that wild ride and brought his father up in time to stop 
his rustling operations. 


262 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


‘‘You can’t fool me with that sort of talk, mamma,” 
he had said. “Hilda Van Brunt’s no looker. Yes, yes 
—I know what you say about the ranch. Pretty is as 
pretty has, eh? She’ll be half owner of my grand¬ 
father’s ranch—the ranch that ought to have been 
mine. But she sure is not pretty, whatever you say.” 

And Hilda? As she shook hands, there was the 
instant memory of having seen and overheard Fayte 
and his father in that bitter interview by the creek- 
side. She was glad neither of them knew that she’d 
been there overhearing. When supper was done, and 
they were moving irregularly from the dining-room, 
Hilda found herself beside the returned prodigal. 

“Don’t you want to come and sit on the porch a 
while?” He spoke in a low tone, apparently for her 
ear only. 

“Shall we?” she asked, raising her voice. “Do you 
think it’s pleasanter outside than in the house, Mrs. 
Marchbanks?” 

“Yes, dear, for you young folks,” the hostess said 
indulgently. “I’ve got to put Jinnie to bed.” 

Hilda turned to Miss Ferguson, but the lady of the 
house made immediate demand on the governess for 
some trifling matter. Maybelle took occasion to se¬ 
cure both of the young men guests for herself; the 
three went down the steps and into the garden. Hilda 
found herself alone with Fayte, facing his half-quizzi¬ 
cal smile, allowing him to bring a porch rocker for her, 
and sit down very close beside her. 

“Well ?” he prompted. One heavy black lock tossed 
down across his forehead, his long gray eyes shining in 
the dusk; he stared at her still with a look that was 
both questioning and mocking. “Say it—say it. 
You’ve got a bad opinion of me. You’ve been warned 


AT THE ALAMOSITAS 


263 


against me.” He laughed at the idea. “That day- 
over at the Sorrows—” 

“Oh, don’t let’s talk about that,” said Hilda nerv¬ 
ously. “Let’s just forget about it.” 

“Suits me,” said Fayte easily. “All the same, I’ve 
been wondering ever since if you were the only one 
that suspected— Say, Hilda, what did set you flying 
off to Tres Pinos to warn dad that day?” 

“Why—Uncle Hank sent me,” she said incautiously. 
“He thought, maybe—because—” 

“Pearsall.” Fayte looked at her with narrowed 
eyes. “Then he was tipped off—as I thought—and 
there’s another score to even up with the J I C 
bunch.” 

“No. No—you’re mistaken. Uncle Hank didn’t 
see any one from—from over here.” 

“But you did.” 

Hilda got to her feet, saying decidedly: 

“If you will keep on talking about that—I’m going 
down where the others are.” 

“Not yet.” Fayte rose too. They stood a moment. 
Tall, handsome, a man now, he was, after all, very 
much the same as the small boy who had blown her 
doll to pieces—and thought it was funny. 

“I don’t want to quarrel,” she began, “but—” 

“That’s all right,” Fayte laughed. “Good way to 
begin. Hilda, you’re going to like me a lot, before 
we’re done. You can’t get away from me. Better not 
try to. And you’re too pretty a girl to put on touch- 
me-not airs.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


“invitation to the dance” 

F ROM the first, Fayte Marchbanks’s presence at 
the Alamositas affected the whole atmosphere 
there—and quite differently from anything 
Hilda could have imagined. Maybelle had said they 
would have more fun if he were home. Hilda wouldn’t 
have put it just that way, exactly, yet everything was 
somehow changed—and rather exciting. 

That very first evening at the dinner-table he began 
it. Hilda was conscious of some strain back of the 
general talk. It ran on jerkily for a time, and then 
Fayte sent one of his narrowed, sliding glances from 
her face to the colonel’s and remarked: 

“If I’d known sooner that you were here, Hilda, 
you bet I wouldn’t have stayed down there on the 
border eating frijoles and operating in wet horses.” 

The queer silence that followed made Hilda a little 
nervous, and she asked, smiling uncertainly: 

“What are ‘wet horses’?” 

“Don’t be a bigger fool than you have to, Fayte.” 
The colonel scowled at his son. “If you’d really been 
mixed up in all the things you pretend—” 

“Shall I tell Hilda what wet horses are, mamma?” 
Fayte interrupted unconcernedly, speaking to his step¬ 
mother, ignoring his father. 

“Tell her whatever you please, honey,” Mrs. 
Marchbanks said easily. “She’ll know you’re only 
fooling. Jinnie,” to the child in the high-chair, “quit 
pounding with your spoon.” 

264 


INVITATION TO THE DANCE’ 


265 


“Well, then, Miss Innocence,” Fayte turned that 
mocking look on Hilda, “wet horses are, technically, 
animals that have swam the Rio Grande—in the night 
—and the good reason for their dampness is that they 
owe Uncle Sam a duty, which they haven’t paid.” 

Hilda understood that Fayte meant them to be¬ 
lieve that in the weeks he’d been away—sent from 
home by his father for bad behavior—he had been 
helping smuggle horses across the Mexican border. 
They all took it in their different ways, his step-mother 
not believing a word against him; Miss Ferguson in¬ 
terested, but puzzled; Colonel Marchbanks angry, as 
Fayte intended he should be. 

“Whether you did or didn’t do what you’re hinting 
at, young man,” he said finally, “it’s a cinch you ought 
to be locked up for talking too much.” And he left 
the table. 

“Father’s right,” said Maybelle dryly. “Pass me 
the butter, Fayte. Don’t pay any attention to him, 
Hilda. When he brags about those sort of things we 
all know he’s trying to string us.” 

It was Hilda’s first experience of a man who made 
capital of disgrace. The few she’d seen so far—men 
on the dodge, Uncle Hank’s old partner, Tracey Jacox 
—these spoke differently of anything criminal they had 
been connected with—or spoke not at all of it. It had 
grown to seem to Hilda one of the decencies of life to 
maintain such reserve. Yet Fayte made his queer kind 
of boasting rather attractive. Like the rest of the 
household, she didn’t believe he was as black as he 
painted himself, but it was interesting always to see 
just how black that would be. 

And mixed up with all sorts of talk about dubious 
stuff he’d been into, dangers he’d run, half crimes he’d 
committed, Fayte—as the days and weeks went on— 


266 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


showed himself more and more in the character of her 
admirer. No stop at the pleasant half-way house of 
friendship; he was as carelessly over-confident in push¬ 
ing to a more intimate footing with her as he had been 
in riding up to the Three Sorrows to rustle a whole 
herd of his father’s cattle. It astonished and rather 
amused her at first to see how little her wishes in the 
matter counted with him. The other boys wanted her 
to like them, were careful not to offend; Fayte was 
only interested in liking her—if his feeling could be 
called liking—and he didn’t a bit mind how much he 
offended. If she showed resentment, aversion, he 
only laughed and told her that some day she was going 
to love him just as hard as she hated him now. 

Her only defense against this aggressive, almost 
threatening sentimentality, was to keep up the half- 
joking quarrels that young people use to cover all 
sorts of situations. For it seemed to her the two of 
them were forever together, and that the whole house¬ 
hold kept out of their way and left them so. Appar¬ 
ently Fayte had no concerns of his own to interfere 
with his hanging around. He would follow her from 
the breakfast table, linger at the schoolroom door 
till Miss Ferguson had to put an end to the whispered 
conversation. And when the lessons were over and 
the girls came out, there he would be lying on his 
mother’s lounge in the sitting-room, or out in the ham¬ 
mock, a pile of paper-covered novels on floor or 
ground, a circle of cigarette butts and feathery ashes 
around him; then, if he didn’t see them first, Maybelle 
would call him to come and join them, or Mrs. March- 
banks would send him. 

Hilda was often at her wit’s end; for there were 
never any of the other boys about now, whose pres¬ 
ence might have helped out; Colonel Marchbanks had 


INVITATION TO THE DANCE’ 


267 


put his foot down on “all that sort of fooling,” had 
told the girls that for the rest of this term they must 
attend strictly to their lessons; there would be no 
more of this wasting their time with those young loaf¬ 
ers. It was almost, Hilda thought, as though they 
wanted to throw her with Fayte and keep her out of 
the way of other people. 

Then one afternoon Maybelle, up in Hilda’s bed¬ 
room, helping her clean her jewelry, asked with a sig¬ 
nificant glance: 

“These all the rings you’ve got, Hilda?” 

“They’re all I have with me,” Hilda said. 

“Oh!” Again that queer look from Maybelle. “I 
thought maybe there was one you weren’t showing. 
I’ve got one nobody around the house has seen.” She 
waited for Hilda to say something, then finished, “But 
I’ll let you see it—if you want to.” She fumbled a 
moment at the neck of her blouse, got hold of a little 
ribbon there, drew out and slipped on the third finger 
of her left hand a solitaire of considerable size. Hilda 
stared at it. 

“Why, Maybelle—where did you get it? It looks 
like—” 

She broke off, and Maybelle said with one of her 
sly smiles. 

“Yes—doesn’t it? Looks just like an engagement 
ring. Maybe that’s what it is. I’m not saying.” 
Then, suddenly, “Where’s yours?” 

“Mine? Oh, you mean my solitaire—like that? 
I’ve got one, only mine is set lower and—and it’s—” 
She stopped, a little confused. She didn’t want to say 
that the stone in this ring—which had been her 
mother’s engagement ring, and was now lying in the 
safe deposit box in the bank at Dawn along with some 
other jewelry and valuables that would come to her 


268 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


later—was larger and handsomer than Maybelle’s. 
Maybelle herself was turning her hand and flashing 
the gem with a great deal of satisfaction. Suddenly 
she stopped and asked in an aggrieved tone: 

“Well? Aren’t you going to show me yours? I 
think you might—I trusted you to see mine.” 

“I—I can’t,” Hilda faltered. And then as May- 
belle continued to eye her. “It isn’t here.” 

“Oh, all right—all right for you, Miss Hilda Van 
Brunt. Anyhow—I found out what I wanted to know. 
I thought Fayte was lying, but I see he told the truth 
—for once,” and she flounced into her own room. 

Hilda was too angry to follow and ask what it was 
that Fayte had told the truth about. She learned of 
it later from Lefty Adams, who clerked in the store, 
and was almost like a member of the family at the 
Alamositas. She and Maybelle—Jinnie tagging along 
—had gone to buy marshmallows that evening, and 
Lefty watched a chance to say to her aside, 

“No callers over to the house these days, hey? 
Not getting lonesome, are you? Oh, no—I reckon 
Fayte’s enough all by his own sweet self. The feller 
that’s got a girl’s promise usually aims to be enough.” 

“Lefty, what do you mean by that?” Hilda asked. 
And when he explained that Fayte was telling all the 
boys that he and Hilda were as good as engaged—on 
the sly—she laughed; not because it was funny, or she 
liked it, but with a sudden appreciation of how prob¬ 
able that must look to any one on the outside. That 
laugh settled it. Her denials, though they finally be¬ 
came indignant, had no effect. She saw that Lefty, 
anyhow, was convinced, as Maybelle had been, that 
what Fayte had told was the truth. 

As they came out onto the store porch carrying their 


INVITATION TO THE DANCE’ 


269 


tin boxes of marshmallows, Jinnie capering at their 
heels, Maybelle caught Hilda’s arm suddenly and 
shook it, exclaiming, 

“Look there! Funny we didn’t see that as we went 
in.” 

Tacked to one of the posts, almost directly in front 
of them, was a placard, roughly lettered, by no very 
skilled hand: 

“DANCE AT GRAINGER’S SATURDAY 
EVENING, MAY 3. 

ALESSANDRO GALINDRO’S MEXICAN 
STRING BAND. 

BARBECUED SHEEP—BARBECUED 

YEARLING—A GREAT TIME EXPECTED. 

COME ONE—COME ALL! 

AND BRING YOUR WIFE AND KIDS AND 
YOUR SISTER-IN-LAW!” 

Below had been added—apparently with a burnt 
match 

“ESPESHUALLY THE SISTER-IN-LAW.” 

Jinnie watched their faces as they read; and when, 
at the last line, they both laughed, she pulled at Hilda’s 
skirt, squealing. 

“Tell me! Tell me!” 

“All right—be still and listen,” said Hilda, and 
began to read the poster slowly to the child. 

“It says kids! Can I go? Can I go?” Jinnie 
hopped uo and down in her usual excited fashion. 


270 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“No—none of us will get to go,” said Hilda, a bit 
disconsolately. “Maybelle, do you suppose, maybe, 
your father—?” 

But when she turned toward where Maybelle had 
stood, she found that her companion had dropped back 
to the doorway and seemed to be speaking to a man 
there. Hilda had noticed him when they first went 
in, standing far at the back of the store. All through 
her little talk with Lefty Adams, she was vaguely 
aware that this person watched them with the air of 
wishing not to seem to do so. He was no cowboy, 
Hilda knew, from the way he was dressed; yet he was 
not an eastern man—a tenderfoot. He belonged to 
the West; and she had too little experience of its small 
towns to recognize the type, to guess that this was, 
as Lefty would have described him, “A tin-horn 
gambler.” 

Almost at the instant that Hilda turned, Maybelle 
sent an uneasy glance over her shoulder; then—for 
all the world as though she did it on purpose—she 
dropped her box of candy; the lid flew off, and the 
marshmallows scattered all about. Instantly the man 
lifted his hat with an air of exaggerated politeness and 
said in a good loud voice, 

“Allow me, Miss.” 

Hilda gazed in open-eyed astonishment, as May¬ 
belle, making no reply that she could hear, promptly 
knelt down beside the man who was picking up the 
marshmallows, and the two of them, their heads to¬ 
gether, proceeded to gather every one off the dirty 
porch floor and put them back into the box. It was 
such a ridiculous—such an incredible performance— 
that Hilda stood completely at a loss. They were 
just getting the last marshmallows back into the box 
—and, Hilda thought, talking in swift undertones— 


INVITATION TO THE DANCE’ 


271 


when Lefty Adams strolled from the store, saw what 
had happened, and called out: 

“Great Scott, Maybelle—you don’t want to eat that 
stuff after it’s been in the dirt! Lemme give you 
another.” 

Maybelle let him. The kind gentleman, who had 
helped her pick up marshmallows that were not fit to 
eat, walked away. Maybelle didn’t even look after 
him. Lefty still lingered in the doorway. He rolled 
a cigarette, then pointed with it to the placard, the 
grin on his face plainly advertising the fact that he 
himself was the author of that last line. 

“See our invitation? That’ll be the biggest dance 
we’ve had this year. What you girls going to wear? 
Think I’ll flash my sky-blue-pink satin with the eight¬ 
een ruffles—make all the other boys jealous.” 

“Yes, we see it,” said Maybelle. “But that’s all the 
good it’ll do us. Pa’s said that we shan’t have any 
company or go to any dances till we’ve finished this 
school term with Miss Ferguson.” 

“Oh, Great Scott, Maybelle! That’s plain mur¬ 
der. You tell the colonel that he’ll have an up- 
risin’ on his hands if he keeps you away from that 
dance.” 

“Huh,” said Maybelle, “I won’t tell him that—nor 
anything else. I know a better way.” 

It was at the supper table that evening that Hilda 
learned what Maybelle’s better way was; for Fayte 
announced that the whole family—Miss Ferguson 
and the kids included—was going to the Grainger 
dance. 

“Well, thank goodness the quarantine’s lifted!” 
said Maybelle, as though this was the first she’d heard 
of the matter. Miss Ferguson looked about her and 
remarked, half apologetically, 


272 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“I suppose there might be a good deal of interesting 
local color in a dance like that.” 

“Might be!” grinned Fayte. “Miss Ferguson, 
that dance’ll furnish you one solid chunk of local color. 
It’s sure going to be what you call a very characteristic 
entertainment.” 

It seemed to Hilda, when once she had the assur¬ 
ance that she would get to go to the dance, that the 
Saturday night for which it was set delayed and dal¬ 
lied on its way down the aisles of time in an exasper¬ 
ating fashion. All her thoughts of the coming eve¬ 
ning centered around one point. She didn’t dare ask 
direct questions; she knew that she couldn’t command 
her features or her telltale color if she did. But she 
came at it indirectly, casually, in her talks with May- 
belle, asking, 

“Who all will be there?” 

“Everybody—just everybody that lives within 
twenty miles; and some from as far away as sixty,” 
Maybelle answered. “The Grainger’s are great for 
that. They don’t stop at tacking up notices. Billy 
and Ed get on horses and ride for days giving invi¬ 
tations just like Pa does when he’s electioneering.” 

Everybody. That would certainly include Pearse. 
Well—if she was to see him—she was to see him; the 
readiness was all. And the days went on, with hur¬ 
ried lessons in the morning, long afternoons of plan¬ 
ning and preparation. Not till Saturday afternoon, 
during a last rehearsal of the dresses and the way 
they were going to do their hair, was Hilda sure 
enough of herself to venture another of those casual 
questions: A young lady named Esmond—was she 
likely to be at the dance? 

Maybelle spoke through the pins between her teeth; 
she was doing her hair at the glass. 


INVITATION TO THE DANCE” 


273 


“That Galveston girl—niece of the manager of the 
J I C? No. She’s gone home. Thought I told you— 
he’s to follow later—they’ll be married in Galveston. 
Some girls have all the luck. Bet I could have got 
him away from her—with a fair chance. Fannie May 
wasn’t what I’d call pretty. But she had him right 
there on the ranch—and Pa won’t let a J I C put foot 
on the Alamositas.” She sighed. “He’s awfully 
good looking. Do you like my hair this way, 
Hilda?” 

“Why—yes. You’ve got it a little too loose. Let 
me pin it in for you.” 

Hilda’s voice didn’t amount to much; but she was 
thankful to be able to speak at all. Of course this 
was what she might have expected. Yet she hadn’t. 
No, no—she hadn’t. Going to Galveston, to be mar¬ 
ried—married! But maybe it wasn’t true. It might 
be—why, it might be just like what Fayte was telling 
about herself. To-night—to-night at the dance. He’d 
be there. She thought she would know when she 
looked at him, heard him speak—even if he told her 
nothing about Fannie May Esmond—whether it was 
so or not. 

She came to herself with Maybelle giving dry little 
details concerning the girl from Galveston: her looks; 
how she had dressed; the “pieces” she played—small, 
definite things that seemed somehow to make her a 
very living presence to Hilda, and the idea of her 
engagement to Pearse very real. Her Boy-On-The- 
Train; her fugitive of the cyclone cellar; Pearse 
Masters, who, present or absent, had filled a place in 
her life and thoughts that no one else ever touched or 
came near to—he was going altogether away from 
her—almost as if he died. 

Well, affairs were going on, just as they always do, 


274 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


just as though she’d heard no dreadful heart-shaking 
thing. She helped to pack the two party dresses which 
were boxed and sent on ahead in the buggy with Mrs. 
Marchbanks, Miss Ferguson, Tod and Jinnie. It was 
about twelve miles to the Grainger ranch, and they 
started early, so that they need not drive fast. Hilda, 
Maybelle and Fayte, on their ponies, left the Alamo- 
sitas in a great, golden haze of sunset. Maybelle had 
no escort except her brother; even Lefty Adams—who 
really didn’t count, Hilda would have said—was told 
shortly, when he proposed to ride over with them, 
that those were “Pa’s orders.” That’s what May¬ 
belle said, and tried to appear sulky about it, but it 
was plain to Hilda, as they set off, that she was really, 
in her quiet way, very much pleased with the arrange¬ 
ment. 

As the three rode, almost entirely silent, the gold 
and crimson flamed, and then faded in the west. 
Dusk stole on; a cooler breath came sweeping up from 
the south; one by one the great white stars began to 
show in the sky about—and Fayte proposed a race. 
They let the ponies out a bit, not so very much, but 
Hilda soon saw that Maybelle was being left far 
behind them. 

“Shall we wait for her—or go back?” she asked, 
pulling up. 

“We won’t do either one,” Fayte said. “We’ll go 
right ahead with our race. Mabs doesn’t want us—i 
and we don’t want her.” 

“She doesn’t want—” Hilda had held back so long 
that they could now dimly see Maybelle’s mounted fig¬ 
ure following them slowly—and she was not alone. 

“Oh,” said Hilda; “why, there’s some one with her. 
Let’s wait and see who it is.” 

“No—come on. Come on, I say. Hang it all— 


INVITATION TO THE DANCE” 


275 


I know who that is with Mabs. It’s a man that can’t 
come to the dance. He wants to get a word with her. 
Come on. Leave them alone. You and I want to 
be alone, too—don’t we?” And he reached over and 
caught her bridle rein. 

“Stop!” said Hilda desperately. “Oh, Fayte, 
don’t let’s be sentimental.” 

She jerked at her rein, and her horse reared free. 
“Let’s race, then!” she gasped, and dug her spur into 
the plunging animal. 

He bolted forward on the run. After a moment 
Fayte followed, laughing under his breath, stung more 
strongly to the pursuit by her reluctance, calling out, 

“All right. It’s a race. You know what the stake 
is—and I’m bound to win!” 

After that Hilda felt that there was nothing for it 
but to arrive among the lights and people at Grainger’s 
before her escort. They would have a late moon, 
but the night had begun to darken. In the trail there 
was small danger from dog holes, and her pony was 
carrying less weight than his. Still she thought long¬ 
ingly of a short cut as she heard swift hoofs behind 
her, and leaned down, using voice and touch of the 
heel, with a good horsewoman’s objection to punishing 
her horse. 

It was Fayte’s temper which won the race for her, 
after all; he slashed his pony with the quirt, and it 
began to buck, wheeling head for tail. By the time he 
had it settled once more into its pace, Hilda was nearly 
a mile ahead of him. 

She slowed up when she felt safe to do so, and even 
waited for Fayte at the edge of the crowd outside the 
Grainger yard, so that they rode through the gate 
together. As he lifted her from her pony, she said to 
him in an undertone, 


276 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“I won, but you had no right to say what you did— 
we weren’t racing for any stakes.” 

“Oh, no, you didn’t win,” Fayte laughed at her. 
“That race isn’t over. We’ll finish it on the way 
home.” 

And at that moment Maybelle rode in—alone. 

“I like the way you two ran off and left me,” she 
said as she got down from her pony without her 
brother’s assistance. 

“Who was that with you?” Hilda asked in her 
nervousness. 

“There wasn’t any one with me,” Maybelle re¬ 
turned placidly. “You and Fayte rode off like two 
wild Indians. I wasn’t going to run my pony lame— 
I need him to ride home on.” 

Maybelle was talking more than usual, also she 
looked wonderfully lit up and excited, beyond what 
just going to a dance accounted for. 

“Excuse me I—I thought there was some one with 
you,” Hilda faltered out, embarrassed, glancing from 
Maybelle to Fayte, who only grinned sardonically and 
didn’t say a word. 

“Well, there wasn’t.” Maybelle gave her a swift 
sidelong look. “I don’t care to ride races and get 
myself all hot and mussed up when I’m going to a 
dance. Come on, Hilda.” And she led the way to 
the house. 

At a table beside the main entrance of the great 
rambling adobe structure Miles Grainger was sta¬ 
tioned, repeating with the ingratiating urgency of an 
auctioneer, 

“Gentlemen, will you kindly lay your guns on this 
here table? A heavy six-shooter ain’t a thing to be 
dancing in, nohow. If it should ketch on one of the 
ladies’ dresses and go off, it might take somebody’s 


INVITATION TO THE DANCE’ 


277 


toe. And if we have any—little discussion—as folks 
is liable to do at a dance, you gentlemen will get along 
better without your guns. Take ’em off, boys. Take 
’em off.” 

There was already a goodly pile of weapons before 
him, and as Hilda’s amused eyes studied the heap, she 
noted that Grainger was addressing himself rather 
pointedly to her escort, and that the big fellow bent 
and whispered to Fayte, a persuading hand on his 
shoulder. 

“Oh, all right—I don’t care, I was only fooling,” 
Fayte answered negligently, drawing out and laying 
down a long, blue-steel six-shooter. “This way, Miss 
Hilda,” and he guided her to the door of Mrs. Miles’ 
bedroom, which was doing duty as a cloak room. As 
he turned away he whispered, 

“Don’t forget—we’ll finish that race going home.” 

“Stop! Wait!” cried Hilda. “If you say that, I 
won’t ride home with you. I’m in earnest, Fayte 
Marchbanks. I will not.” 

“I won’t say it then,” smiled Fayte, his tone im¬ 
plying that whatever he might or might not say, he 
would do as he pleased. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE DANCE AT GRAINGER S 


HE big room they went into was a roil of con¬ 



fusion; two large beds covered with great 


cocoons—each one a baby, wrapped in its own 
quilt or shawl; several mothers of somewhat older 
children—though babies still—trying to convince their 
offspring that it was time to go to sleep—and not being 
very successful at it. 

Jammed in anyway, were girls and women getting 
out of riding skirts and into dancing trim, excited, 
laughing, squabbling over pins or a chance at the mir¬ 
ror. Mrs. Marchbanks pushed through with the big 
box that held the things for Maybelle and Hilda. 
She helped them to dress, calling back and forth to 
the others, introducing Hilda to every one, hardly tak¬ 
ing her gaze off her, even while she hooked up May- 
belle’s waist. Hilda’s glimpse in the glass had shown 
her that her color was flaming high. How big and 
bright it made her eyes look! She was almost as 
beautiful in the party dress as she had dreamed of 
being. 

“There, you’re both all right now,” said Mrs. 
Marchbanks at last, and whispered in Hilda’s ear as 
she pushed them toward the door, “Mabs looks nice— 
but you’re a beauty!” 

Maybelle, who had certainly heard her step¬ 
mother’s words, didn’t seem to mind. It appeared 
that she had something to think about that pleased 
her. 


278 


THE DANCE AT GRAINGER’S 


279 


Outside, the big room was full of people. May- 
belle had been right; surely everybody within twenty 
miles was there. It was a very big room indeed, with 
an earthen floor. The Grainger place, like the house 
at the Alamositas, was adobe, and the canvas ceiling, 
tacked to beams that were unpeeled logs, bulged with 
every draft. The deep window-seats were occupied 
by young couples. Some of the girls wore shirt waists 
and one or two from Juan Chico, or visitors bringing 
the fashions of the larger towns, had evening gowns 
of silk or chiffon. Hilda was very sure that her own 
dress, made by Mrs. Johnnie, would bear comparison 
with any of them. Mothers were still hurrying 
youngsters across the corner of the room. Occasion¬ 
ally these held back and had to be lifted and carried, 
protesting, away from the lights and the music which 
was beginning to tune up. 

Alessandro Galindro’s sheep-shearer musicians were 
softly touching the great harp, a violin and two 
guitars. The lamps were already beginning to make 
the room hot. There would be no lack of partners, 
for the young men outnumbered the girls almost two 
to one. They were riders from the ranges, in full 
cowboy regalia, young fellows from town, in clothing 
nearer ball-room usage. Hilda knew a good many of 
them—had cared a lot for their admiration and their 
liking. If Maybelle hadn’t said that about Pearse— 
this afternoon when they were trying on the party 
dresses—she felt that this would have been a proud 
and happy moment. As it was, most that might have 
been enjoyment was swallowed up in the thought that 
if she met Pearse to-night—and saw when she met him 
that what Maybelle said was true—she must show 
him— 

What was it Hilda was going to show Pearse 


280 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Masters? At thought of it, whatever it was, her 
head went up, her face glowed till she shone out among 
the other girls as though they were pictures on a can¬ 
vas, and she one that had been painted on something 
transparent so that the moving, rising, bending fires 
of life itself shone through. Oh,—she was likely to 
show Pearse Masters! 

“The J I C crowd hasn’t come yet,” Maybelle 
whispered, after a quick glance around, “but will you 
look at old Mr. Hipp?” 

A sun-baked ancient with a wrinkled frock coat 
ambled out into the open of the dancing floor, dis¬ 
playing the horseman’s bowed legs. 

“Hello, Hippy—going to dance?” Lefty Adams 
shouted. 

“Sure,” crowed the aged one. “Cain’t you see I’m 
dyked out for dancin’? Do you Agger that I cain’t 
dance? Jest watch me a spell—you’ll see me cuttin’ 
’em right along with the yearlin’s.” 

“Come on, quick,” whispered Maybelle. “That old 
thing is fixing to ask one of us to dance. Let’s go 
down where Fayte is.” 

Hilda was following perforce, since Maybelle had 
not let go of her wrist, when somebody halted them 
both. She glanced at the tall figure, a glance that 
despite the effort of girlish pride, herded all her blood 
in one great pulse. The breath paused on her lips as 
somebody said, 

“Hilda!” 

Now was the time for dignity and reserve. She 
raised her eyes and tried to look coolly at Pearse, but 
she lowered them instantly before his gaze. 

She never knew when Lefty Adams took possession 
of Maybelle and led her out to dance. She was not 
aware of Fayte’s coming from down the room, push- 


THE DANCE AT GRAINGER’S 


281 


ing people out of his way to get to her, and then 
halting, glowering and listening. She had schooled 
herself to show Pearse a front of indifference, of 
smiling unconcern, when she should meet him. But, 
after all, this almost young lady was the same Hilda 
Van Brunt whose eager little face with its great ques¬ 
tioning, welcoming eyes Hank Pearsall had seen first 
looking out of the El Centro stage, and thought how 
open a way happiness and pain would find to that 
young heart. She had no skill at building barricades, 
at wrapping veils around her spirit. It just would 
rush out and answer with artless candor whenever life 
hailed it. At the utterance of her name by Pearse 
in that tone, the pride and resentment she had tried 
to gather about her melted away from her clutch like 
smoke-wreaths. 

She tried in vain to steady her gaze beneath his, 
to hold that highly desirable attitude of friendly in¬ 
difference. As they stood together looking into each 
other’s eyes, the earth floor beneath her feet seemed 
to sink gently and slew around a bit; or was it that a 
great hand lifted her and turned her bodily about, so 
that in a flash all things were changed; she saw them 
—at a new angle? 

Fayte Marchbanks, over there, with his half insolent 
flattery, his open pursuit that had been disturbing, yet 
somehow fascinating—he and it were as though they 
were not. She forgot that her first dance would be 
due to him as her escort. The musicians had finally 
got their instruments tuned; the violin sent out a little 
cry, the great harp throbbed and twanged, the lesser 
beat and strum of guitars answered, and all launched 
away on the music of a Spanish waltz; Pearse said 
something, she hardly knew what. She had a swim¬ 
ming sense of sweetness and relief as his arm went 


282 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


lightly around her waist, her hand was clasped in his, 
and they swung forth on the recurring surge and ebb 
of sound. Down the long room they circled without 
once stopping. They crossed close by the dark-faced 
musicians, and came slowly up the other side. 

“Hilda”—Pearse found words by this time—“I 
hardly know you—yet it could not have been anybody 
else in the world!” 

She looked up into his face and smiled a bit, making 
no attempt to reply. 

“I saw you from across the room,” he went on 
eagerly. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. Why, when 
I think of the little girl I saw last—” 

He broke off and Hilda laughed at the recollection 
of her stained, torn, cotton riding dress on that occa¬ 
sion, her sun-burned face, streaked with dust and per¬ 
spiration, the soaked hair sticking to it. 

“I must have looked a fright that day,” she half 
whispered. 

“No—of course you didn’t!” Then he added, 
“But—but such a child, Hilda! And now, all in a 
moment—” 

“Oh, it’s been a good many moments.” She did try 
to make her tone a bit sarcastic, though her voice was 
tremulous. “And maybe you only thought I looked 
such a baby. I’m nearly seventeen. You”—she 
tried to laugh—“you offered me the kids at the 
ranches to play with.” 

“I was just a plain fool,” said Pearse. “I’d got 
used to thinking of you as a child—and I—but you’ll 
forgive me, Hilda, and,” eagerly, “give me the next 
dance and let’s sit it out. I’ve got so many things to 
say to you.” 

In their absorption, they did not notice that harp 


THE DANCE AT GRAINGER’S 


283 


and violin were stilled. Now Fayte’s voice broke in 
upon them. 

“Mightn’t you folks just as well quit when the 
music does?” 

They looked about them. The other couples were 
seeking seats. 

“I’m to have the next I suppose, Hilda,” Fayte 
said, rather stiffly. He stood squarely between them 
and the chairs to which Pearse would have led his 
partner. He spoke only to the girl herself. 

“Oh, why, I—I just promised that to—” 

Hilda glanced up, in confusion. Pearse’s tone, 
cool, decisive, solved the situation. 

“She’s promised it to me, Marchbanks,” he finished 
for her. “The room’s hot. We were going to sit 
on the porch.” Then he added civilly, “She thought 
you’d excuse her.” 

Fayte’s eye flashed. He seemed to restrain a hot 
retort. But Pearse, choosing to see nothing amiss, 
pushed past him and kept himself between March- 
banks and Hilda. The press of dancers around the 
door opened out to let them through. Hilda went 
almost without volition of her own. She had a sense 
of a great listening pause in her being. 

Outside the door, Pearse passed ahead of her, 
leaping down off the porch end, reaching up to lift 
her and settle her comfortably on its edge. 

“This’ll do,” he said. “We’ll get half a chance for 
a little talk here.” 

From his seat on the grass below he studied her, 
a radiant, victorious Hilda, in the first exquisiteness of 
girlish bloom. She got only a reflected light on his 
face, yet she could see that he was trying to identify 
her with the little brown girl he had found playing 


284 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


romances in the cyclone cellar, the half-seen girl at the 
camp-fire beside the trail from Sandoval County, who 
had just been making—as she told him—a full hand 
in a long, hard cattle drive, the dusty, unkempt rider 
of that last interview in the little hollow by the creek, 
so few months ago. 

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, “why didn’t you give 
me a chance to see you before? You must have been 
out here in Encinal County several months.” 

“Exactly three, Pearse.” Hilda’s eyes were danc¬ 
ing. “I’ve just about finished my first term with Miss 
Ferguson. She’s a splendid teacher. You’ll be inter¬ 
ested to know about my studies. That’s what you 
said in your letter.” 

“My letter?” Pearse looked foolish. 

“Yes,” nodding her head seriously. “It was an 
awfully good letter, Pearse—sort of noble—but it 
scared me, too. I was hardly hoping you would 
speak to me if you met me on the street over here. It 
was such a relief to have you ask me to dance to-night 
—as though we were really friends, after all.” 

“Oh, come, Hilda—it wasn’t as bad as all that, 
was it?” he pleaded. 

“Or worse.” Her delicate, three-cornered face was 
all eyes. She caught her breath and took the plunge. 
“And—and I hadn’t heard then, didn’t know till late 
this afternoon—about—about your going to Gal¬ 
veston.” 

That was as far as she could trust her voice. A 
curious darkening of everything—darting lights in it 
that were like pain. Pearse’s voice speaking swiftly. 

“Oh, that’ll be all off—now I’ve seen you.” 

What did that mean? What could it mean? Had 
she heard it right? Yes, for he was going on: 

“Couldn’t drive me out of Encinal County—while 


THE DANCE AT GRAINGER’S 


285 


you’re in it, Hilda. Remember those days in your 
old cyclone cellar at the Sorrows? I’ll never forget 
them—that’s certain.” 

He would never forget. Ah, but he’d not re¬ 
minded her of them before with such glowing eyes, 
spoken of them in such a tone! 

“But you were going to Galveston to be—” she 
couldn’t finish. The words, “to be married,” just 
wouldn’t come. Pearse didn’t seem to notice. He 
was all taken up with her—with the fact that they 
were sitting there together on the porch edge, people 
all around, but no one paying any attention to them. 

“Yes,” he said finally, “I was going down to the 
wedding. Several from the ranch are. Fanny May’s 
marrying our assistant manager, you know, and she’s 
the manager’s niece. Nice girl. But you and I aren’t 
interested—are we?” 

All Hilda’s forces deserted in a body to the enemy. 
The overwhelming sweetness of the moment fright¬ 
ened her into hasty speech. 

“Oh, Pearse,” she whispered, “I—do you know 
why I came over here? Uncle Hank didn’t really 
want me to. I could see that. But he let me choose 
•—and I chose to come—because you were here. I 
did. It’s the truth.” 

People at the tub, getting lemonade. Too close 
to risk even another whispered word. Pearse reached 
down into the shadows and caught a slim hand that 
swung over the porch edge. The last time he had 
held it, it was a brown little fist, the palm showing 
small round callouses from ungloved use. Now three 
months at the Alamositas, under the tuition of a lady 
who believed in, and honored, the tradition of lily- 
white feminine fingers, had brought it into its own. 
The Rensselaer hand, famous through generations for 


286 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


its pink palm, tapering fingers and filbert nails, lay in 
Pearse’s and when those slim fingers curled up and 
clasped his own, they took a grasp upon his heart¬ 
strings. 

“It’s awkward—your being with those people,” he 
said, when they again had a chance not to be over¬ 
heard. “But we’ll manage.” 

“You don’t seem to find Fayte much in your way.” 
Hilda laughed a little, because she was so happy. 

“Not much.” Pearse’s tone was fairly preoccupied. 

“I really must give him the next dance,” Hilda 
sighed. “But I don’t want to ride home with him— 
and I suppose I’ll have to.” 

“Of course you won’t. I’ll see that you don’t. 
Here he comes now. Well—the dance—if you must.” 
And he helped her up. 

From the doorway behind them Fayte’s voice, 
raised in a curious jeering anger, answered some one 
there: 

“I put my gun back on, because I want it on, Billy 
Grainger. I’m liable to catch cold without it.” 

He strode through the door. They got the outline 
of his figure in the light, with the bulge the weapon 
made under his coat. 

“Oh—don’t have any trouble with him,” Hilda 
whispered. “You heard him. He’s armed.” 

“And I’m not armed,” said Pearse, quite loud 
enough for Fayte to hear. “There won’t be any 
trouble, Hilda. Don’t you be scared.” Then to 
Fayte, himself. “Hilda and I are old friends. She 
may have told you? Well—I want to be sure of it, 
because she’s going to give you this dance—I suppose 
that’s what you came after?—and as a friend of hers 
I want you to take off that gun you’re packing before 
she does so.” 


THE DANCE AT GRAINGER S 


287 


“I’ll take it off when she asks me to,” Fayte re¬ 
turned, but there was no real defiance in his voice, 
and when Hilda made the request, he was rather glad 
to be rid of it. 

Fayte had his dance. Then there were other part¬ 
ners for Hilda—many of them; she could get out of 
dancing with him again. Pearse had gone straight 
to Mrs. Marchbanks, and now sat beside her, talking 
to her. Hilda wondered what they were saying. 
Later, she saw him dancing with Maybelle. 

When Fayte caught sight of this couple, his sister 
plainly with her whole battery of fascinations brought 
to bear, he was furious. The waltz over, he got her 
outside and began: 

“You dance with Pearse Masters just once more, 
Miss, and I’ll see what dad’s got to say about the 
man you rode over here with to-night.” 

“Let go of me.” Maybelle shook her arm free. 
The two dark faces so alike confronted. “I rode 
over here with you and Hilda. If it comes to telling 
things to pa—I guess I’ll have a little something to 
say that you don’t want told. Who fixed it for me 
to ride with Gene—while you went on with Hilda?” 

She turned and went back into the house; her 
brother, swearing under his breath, flung away toward 
the corral for such consolation as was to be found 
among the rougher fellows who were drinking down 
there. 

Within, the Grainger dance, a great success from 
the start, was in full swing. 

“They need one more couple here,” Pearse Masters 
greeted Maybelle as she reentered. “Come on,” 
and they joined a set where Hilda and Billy Grainger 
stood as one of the head couples. Big John Martin, 
famous all over the range for his improvisations, was 


288 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“calling off,” dealing heavily in freehand epithet, 
comment and admonition. 

“Now balance—balance all—and cut ’em to one side, 

Swing— swing! Now chase your squirrels as fast as you 
can ride!” 

There was applause and laughter from both danc¬ 
ers and lookers-on. 

“Gents to the center. All Hippity-hop ; 

Hipp’s the youngest calf of all the blame’ crop.” 

The ancient grinned. Some of the boys sounded a 
mild “Yip-pee!” 

“Ladies, circle ’em, circle ’em, then, 

Cut your partners out of the pen.” 

Big John’s admiring eye encountered Maybelle. 

“Miss Maybelle of the Alamo-seet, 

She’s the lightest on her feet.” 

“Yip-pee! Johnnie, old boy, come again!” 

‘‘First couple to the center—Bill, stir your lazy bones, 

And lead the figger pretty with the beauty from Lame Jones 
Yonder on the side porch there’s a tub of lemonade. 

Swing—swing your partners. All promen—ade.” 

Supper was to have been served at twelve o’clock; 
but a little after eleven the dust kicked up by the 
dancing feet from the hard earth floor became so 
thick that they could scarcely see each other’s faces. 
Even Big John’s stentorian tones broke off occasion- 


THE DANCE AT GRAINGER’S 


289 


ally in a sort of barking snort. The company had 
just retired somewhat worsted from a polka, when an 
inspired genius in cowboy boots and clinking spurs 
was observed with a bucket of water sprinkling the 
floor. 

“Hi, hi, you Red LeGraw!” bellowed Big John 
from his seat on the edge of the musicians’ table. 
“For the Lord’s sake, what you doin’? Quit that! 
Do you aim to bog this dance down right here?” 

LeGraw stopped and confronted Martin, the bucket 
in his left hand, while he gesticulated with his right, 
flinging large drops of water into the bystanders’ 
eyes. 

“Well, I’ve had two partners mighty nigh choked 
to death, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to—” 

Big Martin sneezed at this point, a sneeze that 
fairly shook the solid adobe walls. Then he began 
to get off the edge of the table. LeGraw set down 
the bucket and squared his shoulders. There was a 
backward movement in the crowd about. But Billy 
Grainger’s voice fell soothingly on the disturbance. 

“Aw, say, boys, don’t worry about it. Supper’s 
ready, anyhow. Come on, people, and eat. We’ll 
get this floor fixed by the time you’re done your 
suppers.” 

Out to the side yard went the company, sniffling and 
wiping its eyes, and streamed over to the tables made 
of rough boards laid on barrels, where the barbecued 
meats were served with bread, potatoes roasted in the 
ashes, coffee in tin cups, and pies, cakes, preserves, 
and sweetmeats, that had come from scores of baskets. 
Fayte, with Hilda, was among the first to go; May- 
belle and Lefty Adams followed close. Pearse 
Masters, with an eye on their movements, took out 
Mrs. Burkett, from over Caliente way, a compara- 


290 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


tively new neighbor of the Flying M household, and 
a warm friend of young Masters, They sat just 
across from the Flying M party. 

Hilda, intensely aware of his presence, did not lift 
her eyes to look at him. She never knew what she 
ate, or if she ate at all. They walked back to the 
house after supper, Pearse and jolly, loud-voiced 
Mrs. Burkett somewhere over to the left of Hilda 
and Fayte in the semi-obscurity; and that cheek of 
Hilda’s, that shoulder and arm, seemed to her to glow 
and palpitate in great electric waves, as she answered 
Fayte at hasty, joyous random. 

In the house, the floor had been, as Big Martin 
somewhat discontentedly expressed it, “hoed off into 
pretty decent shape.” Presently came “the round¬ 
up,” the cowboy’s own cotillion, in which the couples 
are all in one great set, each pair going through every 
all-around figure. Pearse came and asked Hilda, and 
with a throb of joy touched with fear, she rose. 
Under cover of the round-up’s boisterous romping, 
and during the long waits, these two talked eagerly, 
swiftly. 

“You’re not going to ride home with that fellow, 
Hilda.” 

“I don’t want to, Pearse, but—” 

“You’re not going to—dear.” 

The final word was so low that Hilda didn’t actu¬ 
ally hear it—she was only thrillingly certain that it 
was there. 

At the end of that dance, the Alamositas party was 
leaving. Pearse must have known that. He went 
right along with Mrs. Marchbanks, gathering wraps 
and belongings, carrying Jinnie. Hilda saw, with a 
sinking heart, that her pony, saddled, stood near the 
buggy along with Fayte’s and Maybelle’s. There 


THE DANCE AT GRAINGER’S 


291 


was Maybelle herself. Fayte was coming from the 
corral. Lefty Adams rode up. 

The buggy was double-seated, carrying four. Pearse 
pushed past Lefty Adams, tucked in robes and bundles, 
around the children, and reached a hand to help Hilda 
with: 

“Hilda’s going to ride home with you, Mrs. March- 
banks. She’s too tired for the pony. Lefty will lead 
it over. Good night.” 

“Well, I must say—” Mrs. Marchbanks uncon¬ 
sciously lifted the lines. The shivering impatient 
ponies sprang away at a lope. What Mrs. March- 
banks must say would have to be said on the way home, 
for her hands were now full looking after the team 
she was driving. 

And, oddly enough to Hilda, no further mention of 
the matter was made during the drive. Miss Fergu¬ 
son saw nothing strange in the new arrangement. An 
eastern woman, it seemed to her natural enough that 
a girl who had raced to the Grainger ranch and danced 
as much as Hilda had, should need rest. It was in 
the hall at home, in front of her own bedroom door 
that Mrs. Marchbanks said, 

“Hilda, I’ll have to speak to the colonel in the 
morning about this. You know—or maybe you didn’t 
know?—that he doesn’t allow any of the J I C men 
on the ranch.” 

No need to answer that. Pearse hadn’t come on 
the ranch. He hadn’t offered to. But how splen¬ 
didly he’d handled the situation. How Fayte gave 
ground before him. She went silently into her room 
and shut the door. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


AS MAYBELLE SAW IT 

H ILDA waked next morning after but an hour 
or two’s sleep. Last night she had been sure 
she couldn’t sleep at all. She’d lain for a 
long time, it seemed to her, going over and over 
everything she had said to Pearse, all he’d said to her, 
bringing back his every look and gesture. 

Now, as she opened her eyes on last night’s party 
dress lying over the chair, last night’s ornaments 
strewing her bureau top, the happy sense of security 
that had come in dreams, that had pervaded those 
dreamy waking thoughts, threatened to leave her. 
Pearse wasn’t going away to be married; he was more 
her friend than ever; he was more charming, finer 
even, than she remembered him; to be with him was 
more delightful—but— 

Oh, why hadn’t she managed better about Pearse? 
Why hadn’t she said to Mrs. Marchbanks last night 
that she’d known him a long time—that her father 
and mother had known him and his parents years 
ago? The fatal flaw in that was that she hadn’t men¬ 
tioned it when she first came over to the Alamositas. 
And that came about because she’d deceived Uncle 
Hank about him. She sighed and looked about her 
room, wondering how late it was. 

There came a tap on the connecting door; she knew 
that sharp rattling knock; Maybelle must be up and 
dressed already; then she heard Mrs. Marchbanks 
saying: 


292 


AS MAYBELLE SAW IT 


293 


“Don’t wake her. Plenty of time when she comes 
down stairs. She’ll surely want to go—any girl 
would.” 

But Maybelle had already stepped inside and shut 
her stepmother out. Last night, when they were 
alone together, the girls had been very silent; no talk¬ 
ing over the dance. This morning Maybelle stopped 
in the middle of the room and stared half frowningly 
at Hilda, sitting up in bed smiling at her, a tumble 
of dark hair over her shoulders. 

“Hilda—what’s the matter with you this morning?” 

“Nothing. Do I look awfully tired?” 

“Tired!” Maybelle turned to the bureau, and con¬ 
tinued to study Hilda’s face as it showed in the glass 
there. “You don’t look as if you ever had been tired 
in your life—or ever would be. Riding twenty miles 
—racing at that—and dancing all night seems to agree 
with you.” 

“I guess it does.” Hilda slipped out of bed and 
into a bathrobe and began to lay out what she was 
going to wear. Maybelle settled herself on the bed 
edge. 

“Run along and get your bath. I’ll wait for you 
here. Something I want to talk to you about.” 

Hilda came back, rosy, refreshed, declaring: 

“I’d like to go to another dance to-night. I never 
felt so utterly rested in my life.” 

“All right. That’s what I want to talk about. 
Mother’s been afraid you’d be too used up to care to 
ride over and see the doings on County Day—it’s to¬ 
morrow, you know.” 

“I did know,” Hilda said doubtfully, for Fayte had 
been talking to her about County Day. So far as she 
could see, it offered only a chance for him to hang 
about her and push his usual tactics of monopolizing 


294 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


her. “I’m not sure I want to go, Maybelle. I don’t 
think we ought to break up the lessons so much.” 

“Don’t you?” Maybelle waited a long minute, then 
added just three words: 

“He’ll be there.” 

Hilda, bent low over tying her slippers, tried to 
think of something careless to say, and finally ejacu¬ 
lated weakly: 

“Oh—will he?” 

“Yes, he will. Everybody goes; small parties; just 
the Burketts and Lefty Adams and some of the other 
boys in our crowd. But you’ll get a chance to see 
him again—if I help you.” 

Hilda glanced up, startled; Maybelle was smiling 
at her meaningly. 

“When there’s somebody you want to see, and you 
can’t get a chance to without sneaking it—” 

“It isn’t the w r ay you think—” 

“How do you know what I think?” Maybelle inter¬ 
rupted. “What you blushing so for? I’ll bet any¬ 
thing that I’ve got that it is—and more so. You’re 
carrying on with a man that your folks don’t know 
anything about. Well—I’m sort of glad. Helps me 
out.” 

“I’m not—” 

“Yes, you are. If it wasn’t a secret affair—you’d 
have told Ma and Pa as soon as you came over here 
that you were acquainted with Pearse Masters—that 
he’d visited at the Three Sorrows. Caught you that 
time!” Maybelle looked like Fayte when she grinned 
that way. “Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You help 
me out and I’ll help you out. There’s some one in 
the town crowd that’ll be out at the picnic grounds 
County Day that I want to see—that I’ve got to 


AS MAYBELLE SAW IT 


295 


see. I guess you know who it is. Same fellow that 
stole a ride with me on the way to the dance last night. 
The one you saw in the store the other day. You do 
what you can to get me my chance to speak to him, and 
I’ll get Mrs. Burkett to invite Pearse Masters to eat 
lunch with her. Pa can’t say a word if Mrs. Burkett 
gives the invitation—and then throws in with us, and 
she’s going to do that.” 

“He won’t come,” said Hilda faintly. 

“Oh, won’t he?” jeered Maybelle. “Well, I wish I 
was as sure that I’d get a chance to talk to the one 
I want to see as I am that Pearse Masters is from now 
on going to go to any place he thinks he’ll see you. 
He’ll camp on your trail, all right, if I’m any judge. 
Huh,” with a little excited giggle, “didn’t you like the 
way he put it all over Ma? Say—he’s the kind that 
runs things his own way, isn’t he? The Masterses 
were rich. He’s been used to money—in the East— 
and in Europe. Does make an awful difference in a 
fellow. I don’t wonder you’re crazy about him.” 

“Maybelle—” Hilda broke off. What was the 
use? Maybelle’s mind—her way of looking at 
things—was her own. Hilda couldn’t say to her that 
the friendship between herself and Pearse Masters 
was a very different thing from any secret affair she, 
Maybelle, might have with that older man, with his 
strange, hard face. From the window where she 
stood, Maybelle glanced sharply over her shoulder at 
Hilda; then, as though she were answering an argu¬ 
ment that had been carried on aloud, said in a flat 
voice: 

“Well, there’s Mrs. Burkett turning in at the store, 
now. Shall I go over and fix it so she’ll invite Pearse 
Masters? Shall I—or shan’t I?” 


296 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Yes—go—quick 1” cried Hilda, all in one breath. 
“Hurry. She might be gone before you get over 
there.” 

The two girls raced down the stairs, passed Fayte 
in the hall; he looked around and called, “What’s the 
grand rush?” But they didn’t stop. Half way to 
the gate, Hilda caught up little Jinnie, who was play¬ 
ing, and hugged her tempestuously. 

Five minutes later, Maybelle, returning from her 
errand, found the two of them sitting on the Bermuda 
grass, playing cat’s cradle. Maybelle whispered: 

“I made her invite him. She wasn’t going to, but 
I told her he was an old friend of yours, and that your 
folks thought a great deal of him.” 

“Oh, Maybelle—you oughtn’t to have said that 
last; it isn’t true.” 

“Whiskerin’secrets! Whiskerin’secrets!” squealed 
Jinnie. “I hear you two girls whiskerin’ your 
secrets!” 

“I thought that was what you said.” Maybelle’s 
face was as innocent as a pan of milk. “Anyhow— 
it’s done now. You just keep quiet—and it’ll work 
out all right.” 

Hilda was quiet enough, outwardly; but she could 
never have told how she got through the day that fol¬ 
lowed. Yet she did get through it without actual be¬ 
trayals. 

Maybelle was in the kitchen, making tamales for to¬ 
morrow’s lunch. Hilda, at a desk, elbows on it to 
prop her face into studying position, had no realization 
of how time passed. She had drifted so far away 
from her surroundings that Miss Ferguson’s hesitat¬ 
ing, embarrassed voice startled her, saying almost in 
Maybelle’s exact words: 

“Hilda—what is it?” 


AS MAYBELLE SAW IT 


297 


“What is what?” 

“If there was—anything—if you needed advice— 
you could come to me, you know.” 

“Advice?” Hilda came to herself with a jerk. She 
glanced from the book in front of her to her teacher’s 
face. “I don’t need anything, thank you. I am all 
right. Everything’s all right.” Poor Miss Fergu¬ 
son—what would she know? What could she do, or 
say? No use. You had to keep such things to your¬ 
self and do the best you could with them. She seized 
her pencil and went to work again, saying softly, with¬ 
out looking up, “You’re very kind—but it’s all right.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 

OLD MAN HIPP’S STEER 
HE Flying M crowd and the Burketts had 



agreed on a place all to themselves in the wil- 


lows along Caliente creek. The colonel said 
he intended to try for some plover up there. Hilda, 
riding with Maybelle and Fayte, watched eagerly as 
they neared the picnic grounds, saw that the Burketts 
were already there ahead of them; out of their vehi¬ 
cles, off their ponies, moving about a camp-fire and 
spreading a tablecloth. 

“There’s Lefty Adams and Billy Grainger,” com¬ 
mented Maybelle, softly. But nobody said, “There’s 
Pearse Masters.” 

There was no need to say it. Fayte, glancing aside 
at Hilda’s glowing face, might easily have been aware 
whose was the tall figure moving beside Mrs. Burkett 
across from the B Z B ambulance. Even Miss Fer¬ 
guson, looking back from the buckboard and catching 
sight of her pupil, got some guess as to that secret 
happiness which was transforming her. Pearse, hur¬ 
riedly placing Mrs. Burkett’s basket and coming to 
help Hilda down, got Colonel Marchbanks’ shoulder 
turned to him with a grunt; the colonel spoke after¬ 
ward, low and angrily, to his wife. But what did it 
matter? Pearse’s look and gesture as he swung 
Hilda from her saddle, and they stood a moment 
gazing in each other’s eyes, suggested that the two 
of them were alone on the Staked Plain. 

“Well, I declare! I thought he was going to kiss 


298 


OLD MAN HIPP’S STEER 299 

her—didn’t you?” Maybelle observed to her brother, 
whose only answer was a black look. 

The hurry of getting the Flying M lunch spread 
out, of finding a place on the coals for its coffee-pot 
and its kettle of frijoles, covered, but did not conceal, 
the state of affairs between Hilda and Pearse. By 
the time the party was settled around the long table¬ 
cloth it was plain that the colonel and Mrs. March- 
banks had a disturbing consciousness of it. Nobody 
could fail to note the glances that passed between the 
two. Pearse sat close enough to speak unheard by 
the others, and Mrs. Burkett, being a woman and 
therefore a match-maker, looked with smiling defiance 
at her neighbors, as she raised an already round and 
hearty voice another notch or so to cover their whis¬ 
pering. Altogether, things began to be somewhat 
strained before the meal was over. 

Jinnie Marchbanks, from the first, had dotted on 
Hilda; and took an instant liking to the new man, 
who had been nice to her at the Grainger dance. She 
sat between the two, or rather slightly in front of 
their dropped hands which sometimes thus found an 
opportunity for joining. Hilda wasn’t aware of what 
she ate and drank—or if she was eating or drinking at 
all. It didn’t even infringe on her joy that the 
Marchbankses, excepting always Maybelle, seemed to 
be trying to make an interloper of Pearse. Every one 
else appeared to like him. She could see he was pop¬ 
ular and had a standing of his own. And he showed 
himself very openly and decidedly her special friend 
—her property, Maybelle would have said. 

Lunch was eaten and cleared away. It was two 
hours later; every known game that would keep the 
group together had been proposed and carried on as 
long as the young folks would stand for it. The thin 


300 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


echoes of shouts and laughter came across from the 
farther end of the big picnic ground, where the town 
crowd from Juan Chico had long tables that the res¬ 
taurant men supplied. It had not been noticed that 
the children were no longer with them till Tod and 
Jinnie with the Burkett youngsters came surging into 
their midst, announcing that they had been up the 
creek, and that there was a steer bogged down there. 

“He’s dest a-swingin’ his horns and goin’ ‘Mrrr! 
Mrrr!’ ” sputtered the excitable Jinnie, while Tod 
came in grandly, 

“ ’F I’d had a rope, I’d ’a’ snaked him out o’ that 
mighty quick.” 

“S’pose we sa’nter up there and have a look at 
him?” suggested Lefty Adams, throwing away his 
cigarette butt and reaching around for his saddle, of 
which he had been making a pillow. He cinched it 
on the pony deliberately. “Hi, fellers, what do you 
say? Shall we go and pull a steer out of the mud?” 

“You boys mind what you’re doing,” said Colonel 
Marchbanks from where he lay under a big juniper, 
his hands clasped behind his head, a cigar between his 
teeth. “Those fellows are due to go on the prod 
when you drag ’em out of the mud. Don’t turn any 
cavorting steer down the creek here on us.” 

Three or four young men had hastily saddled, 
mounted and wheeled to follow Adams. 

“All right, Colonel,” Lefty called back over his 
shoulder. “Us girls’ll be powerful careful. We’re 
kind o’ scairt o’ cow-brutes ourselves.” 

Then he caught his hat from his head, slapped it 
down in a loud “flop” on the pony’s neck, and clat¬ 
tered out of sight along the trail, leading the way with 
a long “Yip-pee!” 

Among the group that rode at his heels were both 


OLD MAN HIPP’S STEER 


301 


Pearse Masters and Fayte Marchbanks. Maybelle 
caught Hilda’s arm and without a word dragged her 
in their wake. 

“Now,” she whispered urgently, “now’s your time 
to get a word alone with him—and help me. I want 
to slip across to that town crowd without Pa or Ma 
seeing me. Won’t take me but a minute. You wait 
for me here by the creek, and we’ll go back to¬ 
gether afterward. They’ll think we’ve been together 
all the time.” 

No time to debate. The girls ran blindly up the 
trail beside the creek. It was the quickest way for 
Maybelle’s enterprise too. Rough, twisty going; 
breathless, they swung around a clump of scrub—and 
there right before them was the steer, sunk nearly to 
his knees in the soft mud. The young fellows sitting 
their ponies about him, joking over the enterprise, 
hadn’t gotten sight of the two girls. Maybelle pulled 
back a little, out of range; it was no part of her plan 
to be caught by her brother in what she was doing. 
Lefty Adams was rolling a fresh cigarette, one leg 
thrown over the saddle horn. He slanted a glance at 
the unfortunate one in the mud who was still, as Tod 
had said, shaking his head and grumbling, rolling 
bloodshot eyes. 

“Huh! One of old man Hipp’s lazy H’s,” drawled 
Lefty in a disgusted tone. 

“That’s what he is.” Fayte Marchbanks began to 
re-coil the rope he’d been loosening from his saddle 
horn. 

“Old man Hipp!” sniffed Sam Cole. “Anybody 
that wants to, can pull a steer out of the mud for that 
old skeezicks!” 

“Aw—we ain’t going to pull it out for Hipp,” 
argued Lefty. “Just going to snake the long-horn 


302 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


out for fun. Go to it, fellows. First one speaks has 
got first go. Who wants to dab a rope on him?” 

On the instant Fayte Marchbanks caught sight of 
those light fluttering dresses on the path below. 
Here was a chance to show off before Hilda. 

“I’ll snake him out!” he cried, sat forward in his 
saddle, and with a flourish his rope flew out and 
settled over the broad, swinging horns. Fayte was 
pulling in the slack, making fast and starting his 
pony, when Pearse Masters, glancing toward the path 
below, called out sharply. 

“Hold on, Marchbanks! There’s some one afoot 
down there.” It was the first word that had passed 
between these two since the night of the dance, and 
the red surged up in Fayte’s dark face, his eyes 
gleamed. His answer was lost in the queer, yelping 
bellow of the steer as the rope grew taut. The other 
boys laughed. One more heave and the brute would 
be free. 

“Hold on,” Pearse repeated. “I tell you there’s 
some one afoot down there on the path. Give them 
a chance to get out of the way!” 

But with a great kicking and splattering and lash¬ 
ing out of gaunt, powerful legs, the steer had already 
hauled free from the mud, gone almost down, rolled 
partly over—and Fayte’s rope slipped from his horns! 

“Rope him! Rope him—some of you!” Fayte 
yelled, coiling frantically at his own rope so that he 
might send it out again. But no one else was ready 
with a rope. The steer scrambled to his knees—to 
his feet; now on firm ground, free, blind with fury. 

The cheer the boys sent up when Fayte made his 
successful cast, the shouted words between him and 
Pearse, had reached the picnic party back at the camp- 


OLD MAN HIPP’S STEER 


303 


fire and started them running up the path. They 
were still out of sight of what was happening as the 
steer, tail up, charged those unmounted figures. 

“Run, girls!” yelled Fayte. “Why the devil don’t 
you run?” 

But Hilda, dragging at Maybelle’s arm, knew why; 
the other girl was paralyzed with fright. She stood 
rigid, and Hilda could not leave her. 

In the one fleeting instant Hilda saw Pearse crowd 
his pony against Fayte, saw his arm go over as 
though striking a blow. But the hand that shot out 
toward Fayte came away with a loaded six-shooter 
in it, and on the instant Pearse fired. 

The shot caught the beast in full gallop; with one 
last plunge his nose dropped to earth; he flung a com¬ 
plete somersault, his kicking hoofs cutting close past 
Hilda’s head; then he lay still. 

Pearse was off his pony and running to the girls. 
His cheek bled from a cut. When he reached over 
Fayte to jerk the pistol from its holster, they all had 
seen that young man turn and strike at him. A small, 
jagged tear was made by the glancing blow of a heavy 
ring, dark, Mexican gold, which Fayte always wore. 

So much Hilda saw, and then the party from below 
came up on the run, Colonel Marchbanks ahead, Mrs. 
Marchbanks panting close after, catching at her hus¬ 
band’s arm, begging him not to get excited. 

“Let go of me, Evelyn.” He shook her off. 
“Now you”—he faced Pearse—“haven’t you any 
better sense than to go dragging a steer out of the 
mud when these girls were here afoot—and children 
playing around? What the devil do you mean by it?” 

Fayte Marchbanks got down from his horse, still 
white, but very defiant. The other boys looked to 


304 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


him. None of them would speak until he did. There 
was an awkward silence for a moment, then he said, 

“Hold up. I guess we were all into this thing. 
Reckon you’re right. We ought to have had better 
sense. But it was Masters who shot the steer.” 

“Did, did he?” 

“Well, he saved these girls’ lives,” said Mrs. Bur¬ 
kett sharply. “Good thing one of you had sense 
enough. What were the rest of you doing?” 

“Why, you see,” Lefty glanced sidewise at the 
colonel, “wasn’t another rope in the crowd ready for 
use. Feller that roped the brute had just used his’n, 
and the rest of us hadn’t got ours out a-tall. That’s 
the way it happened, Ma’am. We none of us saw 
the girls—unless Fayte did. He was facin’ the right 
way to see ’em— Did you, Fayte?” The inquiry 
was put with great innocence. Fayte answered it: 

“You go to the devil! What difference does it 
make that Masters happened to be quickest on the 
draw? One or the other of us would have shot that 
steer, if he hadn’t.” 

“Oh, Masters is quick on the draw,” grinned 
Lefty, “even when he draws from another feller’s 
holster—and gets a smack on the jaw for doing it.” 

All the cowboys were grinning now. This thing of 
Pearse Masters being blamed—in any part—for 
Fayte’s reckless behavior, tickled their sense of humor. 

“Lots of fuss about nothing,” Fayte muttered, and 
he scuffed negligently at the dead steer, which Jinnie 
and Tod were already investigating. 

“All right,” Colonel Marchbanks raised his voice; 
he understood now where the fault lay. “If you boys 
want to rave around and kill cattle for fun—I sup¬ 
pose you’ve got the price. Evelyn—get those chil¬ 
dren out of the way here. You girls go back down 


OLD MAN HIPPS STEER 


305 


the creek. We’ve had about enough picnic for one 
day. You can get ready to go home. Where’s May- 
belle?” 

“Right here. Been here all the time, Pa.” May- 
belle’s arm was slipped suddenly around Hilda’s 
waist. She spoke innocently, but Hilda could feel her 
panting. 

Colonel Marchbanks herded his household down 
the path. 

“Well, let’s have our supper anyhow, before we 
start back,” said Mrs. Burkett, going to the baskets. 

But Colonel Marchbanks decided that his folks 
should eat their supper at home; Miss Ferguson and 
Maybelle were started at the packing and getting 
ready, the children sent to wash their faces. 

Lefty and Sam Cone had ridden in with Fayte; 
apparently Pearse was still up the creek at the scene 
of the accident. After a cautious look about her, 
Hilda started back that way. Out of sight of the 
others, she came on Tod and Jinnie lingering in the 
path. 

“Where you going?” Tod got in front of her. 

“Just up here. I’ll only be gone a minute. Don’t 
tell any one where I am—will you ?” 

“We won’t,” Tod agreed much too easily. “I 
won’t tell him.” 

Hilda ran along the path a few steps when a saw- 
edged shriek from behind stopped her, turned her. 
There was Jinnie throwing herself bodily on her 
brother, pounding him fiercely, while he ducked and 
dodged the best he could—it was against family rules 
for him to hit back at Jinnie. 

“Yes, he will tell!” squealed Jinnie. “Buvver 
Fayte’s goin’ to give him a korter-money for tellin’ I’ 0 
She grabbed at Tod’s hay-colored hair; he pulled free 


306 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 

and ran. “Git him! Git him! He said he wouldn’t 
tell—and he’s running right now to tell Buvver Fayte 
—and get ’at korter-money!” 

“What’s the matter, kids?” It was Pearse, lead¬ 
ing his pony. Hilda turned to him instantly, crying 
out, 

“Oh, Pearse—you won’t let it go like this, will 
you? Everybody ought to be told just how it was.” 

“What’s the use?” Pearse came close and took 
her hand. “Fayte knows how it was. The other 
boys know. The colonel could find out—if he wanted 
to. You and I don’t care. You’ll see that March- 
banks will pay old man Hipp for his steer. That’ll 
show he knows whose fault it all was.” 

“Yes—and Maybelle. I thought she’d say some¬ 
thing,” said Hilda. 

“Oh—here you are, Hilda,” Mrs. Marchbanks 
came up, Jinnie at her heels. Tod had found some 
one to tell, if not Fayte. “Run back, Jinnie. Get 
your face washed, dear. We’re going to start home 
in a few minutes. I want to talk to Hilda.” Pearse, 
lifting his hat, led his pony past them, then checked 
and looked back to where Mrs. Marchbanks was 
already pulling Hilda down beside her on a fallen log. 

“I’ll see you on the way home, Hilda,” he said 
quietly and went on. 

“Well”—Mrs. Marchbanks stared after him with 
an offended air—“he doesn’t seem to have any doubts 
about what he’ll do, does he?” 

Hilda was silent. Mrs. Marchbanks looked around 
at her and began hastily with a speech that sounded 
as though it had been prepared. 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to make trouble by the 
way you’ve behaved with this Pearse Masters. You’re 
just young and thoughtless. Fayte’s got a heart of 


OLD MAN HIPP’S STEER 


307 


gold, and he’s perfectly devoted to you. But he’s 
hot-headed, and if you—” 

“I wish you wouldn’t talk to me this way, Mrs. 
Marchbanks,” Hilda protested. 

“But a beautiful, fascinating girl like you has a 
great responsibility, Hilda; sometimes the very sal¬ 
vation of one of her boy friends may depend on her.” 

“Oh, please don’t!” Hilda got up; Mrs. March- 
banks got up with her, still talking urgently as they 
started slowly back. 

“You could make anything of this boy of ours. A 
little wild—any high-spirited boy is—but he only 
needs steadying down. You be nice to him, Hilda. 
Be kind to him.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE CLOSING OF A DOOR 
HE six young people on their ponies came 



stragglingly together at Alamositas head- 


-**- quarters. They checked there a little awk¬ 
wardly, as though waiting for the big family carriage 
to come up. 

Pearse had ranged his horse up to Hilda’s as they 
left the picnic place on the Caliente, and without invi¬ 
tation or permission, or anything being said one way 
or the other, had ridden the whole twelve miles beside 
her. Maybelle, in an excited, defiant mood that 
Hilda had never seen in her before, laughing loud and 
playing tricks, skylarked with Lefty and Sam, gallop¬ 
ing, all dust and noise, sometimes ahead, sometimes 
behind the other three. Fayte hung persistently at 
Hilda’s other side. He looked black, but said noth¬ 
ing. It was clear to her—and the assurance thrilled 
her—that he was afraid of Pearse. The Mexican 
boy ran out and opened the front yard gate, and May- 
belle, leading the way, called gayly: 

“Come in, all of you. Mr. Masters, stay and have 
supper—the boys are going to,” paying no attention 
to her brother’s angry, astonished glare. But Lefty 
and Sam rode on, with hasty, muttered excuses. 
Pearse shook his head at the supper invitation, but 
moved with them slowly through the gate. 

“I’ll run on ahead and get things started.” May- 
belle jumped from her pony. “Come on, Fayte—you 
help me.” 


308 


THE CLOSING OF A DOOR 


309 


“I’m only waiting till the colonel gets here, Miss 
Maybelle”—Pearse’s tone was cool and civil—“I’ll be 
on my way then—thank you just the same for your 
invitation.” 

Pearse’s words covered the fact that, having come 
on Alamositas land against a settled understanding, 
he had no intention of seeming to run away before 
he had shown himself here to the man who had issued 
that order. Maybelle stopped where she was, the 
rein of her pony over her shoulder; Fayte didn’t even 
dismount; they waited in silence, drawn back to the 
edge of the gravel so that the big carriage, when it 
came, would have room to turn. In it rolled finally, 
and it seemed to Hilda that every one riding in it 
was staring at Pearse, as it made the sweep and the 
colonel threw his lines to the waiting Mexican boy, 
got out and turned to help out his wife, Miss Fergu¬ 
son and the children. 

“Well, Pa,” Maybelle strolled forward with this 
new, jaunty air of hers, “aren’t you going to speak a 
word? I don’t even remember hearing you say back 
there at the creek that you were much obliged to this 
young man that shot the steer and kept your oldest 
daughter from getting killed. You are obliged to 
him—aren’t you? Even if you could spare me pretty 
easy—there’s Hilda to think about. What could you 
have said to Mr. Pearsall if she’d been killed?” 

So far, the colonel had kept his back to them; now 
he twisted around and looked at Maybelle, then past 
her at the others. His glance lingered longest on his 
son, and Fayte swung down with the air of one who 
had got an order, came around to help Hilda off, but 
she shook her head and sat in her saddle, waiting for 
what the colonel would do or say. Maybelle laughed 
hardily. 


310 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Make you acquainted with Mr. Masters, Colonel 
Marchbanks,” she went on. “Ever meet the gentle¬ 
man before? Hilda has. She says she’s known him 
ever since she was a baby.” 

“She does?” 

There fell a curious silence after the colonel’s two 
words, only the movements of the ponies, Jinnie’s 
tired whimpering as she pulled at her mother’s hand, 
the creaking of saddle leather making itself heard. 
At last Marchbanks, looking Pearse up and down, 
observed dryly: 

“Funny Pearsall never mentioned you to me.” 

“I don’t think it’s funny.” 

Pearse’s reply seemed to cover a good deal. But 
what it covered was not for explanation here. 

“You don’t? Then you’re not a friend of his— 
only of Hilda’s? That it?” 

“That’s about it,” agreed Pearse coolly. 

Hilda clutched her bridle rein in fingers that shook, 
as she looked at the two men facing each other. 

“Pearsall is Hilda’s guardian,” Marchbanks said 
sharply; and once again it flitted across Hilda’s mind 
how, years ago, he had tried to oust Uncle Hank from 
that place. “I’m not. But till you have his permis¬ 
sion you can’t visit her in my house.” 

“I had no intention of attempting to do so, Colonel 
Marchbanks,” Pearse returned steadily. “Good night, 
everybody.” He wheeled his pony. “Ride with me to 
the gate, Hilda,” and she found herself following him, 
the people they left at first letting them go silently 
and then seeming to begin to quarrel about it. 

“Pearse,” she cried, bringing her horse up beside 
his, “what a shameful way to treat you—after— 
They know well enough that Maybelle and I might 
have been killed if it hadn’t been for you.” 


THE CLOSING OF A DOOR 


311 


“Never mind about me. I don’t care how they 
treat me.” He glanced carelessly back toward the 
group at the porch edge. “It’s you I’m thinking of.” 

“Well, I care!” Hilda’s voice shook with anger. 
“I feel as though I never wanted to see one of them 
again. I’d like to go straight home, if it wasn’t 
for—” 

“Better not do that,” said Pearse uncertainly. 
“Not right away, anyhow. But you and I are going 
to be friends, aren’t we, Hilda? Even if I have to 
go over to the Three Sorrows and eat humble pie.” 

“Oh—would you come?” cried Hilda breathlessly. 

“Of course I’ll come,” Pearse said. “But your 
Uncle Hank, as you call him, may treat me about as 
Marchbanks did just now. Had you ever thought of 
that?” 

“He wouldn’t. And if he did—” 

“Well, if he did—you’d have to choose between us 
—wouldn’t you, Hilda?” 

“I couldn’t—Uncle Hank—” The words came 
almost unconsciously. A moment to think and Hilda 
never would have said them. For the Pearse she’d 
known before to-day—before the night at the dance at 
Grainger’s—would, she was sure, at the sound of them 
have ridden away and left her. This Pearse didn’t. 
He held in his impatient pony, and they sat looking 
at each other, close. 

“That’s the way you choose between us, is it?” 
he asked. 

“I’m not choosing,” Hilda cried in distress. “I 
haven’t any choice. You don’t understand, Pearse. 
If it was my own father, I might. But Uncle Hank 
didn’t owe me anything—he wasn’t paying a debt he 
owed me—and he’s given everything. He’s got no¬ 
body but me. I couldn’t. Don’t ask it.” 


312 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Through this snatched moment of talk, they had 
been conscious of the wrangling of the Marchbanks 
family, back there by the porch. Now the voices 
went up to an angry climax; some one started down 
the path toward them. 

“All right,” said Pearse hastily. “Then you won’t 
go—just yet, anyhow? Not till I’ve seen you again? 
. . . Here comes our friend Marchbanks.” Pearse 
reached for her hand. Holding it, speaking low and 
rapidly: “Stay here till I get the chance.” His hand 
tightened down hard on the one he held in a farewell 
pressure. Then he loosened the reins, started his 
horse, and said in a good loud voice, “See you soon 
again, Hilda. Good-by for the present,” and went 
off at a lope. 

Of course the colonel heard that last—and, of 
course, Pearse intended he should. Exasperated, un¬ 
able to retaliate, as she went through the gate he did 
that unforgivable thing—reached up and took hold 
of her pony’s bit with a jerk. 

Instantly she was out of the saddle. She’d not go 
back to the house, led like a bad child. Marchbanks 
flung the rein to the waiting boy and followed at once. 
Not a soul on the porch now. They went through 
the front door almost together. 

Hilda walked into the whole family; Fayte over at 
the farther end of the big dining-room, apparently 
getting himself something to eat at the sideboard; 
Maybelle, half-way up the stairs, looking back across 
her shoulder, making a little sign to Hilda—Maybelle 
was thinking only of her own affairs and the possi¬ 
bility of Hilda, under pressure, letting out something 
about them; the children were pulling at their mother, 
begging for their bread and milk. Mrs. Marchbanks 
tried to shove them off with Miss Ferguson. They 


THE CLOSING OF A DOOR 313 

didn’t want to go with the teacher. The two women 
were moving slowly in the direction of the dining¬ 
room arch when Mrs. Marchbanks caught sight of her 
husband and Hilda at the front door. She came to¬ 
ward them. 

“Hold on a minute, Hilda,” the colonel was saying, 
“I don’t want you to make any mistake about this. 
Understand—you can’t stay in my house and keep up 
an affair with a fellow like Pearse Masters.” 

Hilda stopped short; her face flamed as though it 
had been slapped. 

“I’m not keeping up an affair—with anybody. 
You’ve no right to say such a thing to me, Colonel 
Marchbanks!” She looked about; all the eyes were 
upon her, “And I think I’d better not stay in your 
house, anyhow.” 

“Now, don’t go and make her mad, Lee.” Mrs. 
Marchbanks came over. “She’s tired and excited. Of 
course she’s going to stay with us. We’re all sort of 
upset this evening. It’s no time to pick at the girl 
about—about— Run on to your room, Hilda, and 
wash up for supper. I’ll talk to this cross man. It’ll 
be all right.” 

“If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Marchbanks, I don’t 
want any supper,” Hilda said; but she moved toward 
the stairs from which Maybelle had disappeared. 
The children were established at the dining table, eat¬ 
ing noisily, poor, bewildered Miss Ferguson trying to 
wait on them. Fayte stood, a sandwich in his hand, 
backed against the sideboard, laughing silently at her. 

“She’ll stay, all right,” he called, half tauntingly. 

“I’ll not!” At his words and tone Hilda whirled 
from the lowest step of the stairs. “I will not. You’ll 
see!” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE RESURRECTION PLANT 

I N her own room, the door slammed and locked, 
Hilda faced the situation. She fairly glowed and 
palpitated with the rage that ran like fire in her 
veins and seemed to burn out timidity and indecision. 
She’d done it now. Pearse had asked her to stay— 
and she’d told those people downstairs that she was 
going to leave. She would leave, too. If Pearse 
knew, he’d want her to leave. He’d want her to walk 
right out of the house. 

Without stopping to change from her riding dress 
she hurried from closet to bureau drawers, pulling out 
things, throwing them on the bed, folding them, drag¬ 
ging out her trunk, her valises, and beginning to pack. 

Movement in Maybelle’s room; but the door be¬ 
tween wasn’t even touched. Well, she didn’t want to 
talk to Maybelle. She had nothing to say to any of 
them. She was going home. 

She worked more systematically now. The supper 
bell rang. Maybelle left her room and went down, 
humming, clattering on the stair. Then Mrs. March- 
banks herself came to call Hilda. Without opening 
her door Hilda repeated that she didn’t want any 
supper. 

“Not pouting, are you?” 

“No, I’m not pouting.” 

“Of course you aren’t. Well, come down when 
you get hungry, then,” Mrs. Marchbanks said finally. 
314 


THE RESURRECTION PLANT 


315 


“I’ll leave something on the table for you.” And 
she went away. 

Sounds of the household at supper down there; 
then people moving about, talking. After a while, 
they began to come upstairs, the children first, Mrs. 
Marchbanks with them, stopping to tap at the door 
and ask if Hilda was all right. 

“Yes. All right, thank you, Mrs. Marchbanks.” 

The crispness of her tone seemed to send Mrs. 
Marchbanks away pretty promptly. Later Miss 
Ferguson’s slow, precise tread, its hesitation at her 
door, then the going on. Hilda was glad of that. 
Miss Ferguson was a good sort, she meant well; but 
Hilda didn’t want to see her now. Maybelle in her 
room again, moving about softly; the colonel’s heavy 
step; sounds of him locking up; he and Fayte on the 
stair, quarreling as usual, but in low tones. 

And then the house grew still, except for those 
light, almost stealthy movements in the next room. 
Finally they, too, ceased. It was after ten o’clock, 
and Hilda’s work was done, when she suddenly re¬ 
alized that she should have taken off her riding clothes 
and packed them in the trunk. Well, it was locked, 
and strapped; they’d have to go in the bag now. She 
gave one last look around, to be sure she had for¬ 
gotten nothing, then went to the window. That res¬ 
urrection plant Maybelle had said she’d give her 
when she went home; she wanted it; the queer things 
didn’t grow over on the plains of Lame Jones County. 
Yet—she didn’t like to open the door and ask. 
Probably Maybelle was already asleep. She leaned 
out and looked; that other window beside hers was 
dark, and there sat the little plant in its bowl. Hilda 
made a long arm, reached around and transferred it 
to her own sill. She emptied the water in which it 


316 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 

had grown green, and left it to dry out so that it 
would be ready to carry away in the morning. 

Through all the flame and rush of her, the thought 
of Pearse had never been absent from her a moment. 
At first there was a desperate, irrational idea that she 
would see him before she left. Then, as the mere 
physical work began to clear her mind, she knew that 
she couldn’t do this. She’d have to write. After 
that, as she moved quietly, swiftly to and fro, her eyes 
went continually to the little table where pens and 
paper lay, her letter to Pearse forming itself in her 
mind. She wanted him to know that, if it had seemed 
possible, she would have stayed here as he asked her 
to. She must beg him to come over to the Sorrows. 
No—she shook her head above the dress she was fold¬ 
ing—hadn’t been able to do a thing with him any of 
the times when he was right there. It—crowding 
paper into slipper toes—it was different now. She’d 
say—she’d say— 

Everything done, she went over and sat down. The 
sheet before her, the pencil in her hand, she sat a long 
time staring, not seeing it. The furious activity of 
her moments of packing and getting ready, the hot 
anger that had sustained them, were gone. Cold 
doubts huddled around the edge of her mind; they 
clamored for attention. Suppose Pearse wouldn’t 
come over to the Sorrows ? Suppose he changed 
back into that old Pearse she had known, who could 
be hard and indifferent? If she was here— When 
she could see him— But she was risking all in going 
away and trusting to a letter— 

She finally began, wrote rapidly for a while, stopped, 
frowned at what she had written, tore it up, and sat 
thinking. This whole round of action she repeated 
several times. Then in desperation she dashed 


THE RESURRECTION PLANT 


317 


down a few lines, signed, folded them, got them into 
an envelope—put her head down on the table and 
began to cry. 

It wasn’t noisy grief, just the slow tears of ex¬ 
haustion. She must have cried herself to sleep. 

What was it waked her? She sat up suddenly in 
the dark. Her lamp was out. Dim moonlight made 
a gray square of her window, and as she stared at it, 
there came once more the rattle of gravel against the 
glass—then a low, guarded whistle. 

The house was still. It must be some time in the 
small hours. She didn’t dare strike a match to look 
at her watch. She stole across and peered out be¬ 
tween the curtains. Over there by the cottonwoods 
that gave the place its name—wasn’t that a mounted 
man in their shadow? Pearse! It must be. It 
couldn’t be any one else! She waved a hasty signal, 
then slipped over, got her own door open as silently 
as she could, and hurried down stairs. 

As she struggled with the fastening of the front 
door, she was desperately afraid he might have been 
there longer than she knew—be discouraged—leave 
without seeing her. But she’d waved to him from the 
window. She thought he answered. Oh—the door 
gave at last, but noisily. 

She crossed the court on winged feet; some one 
caught her in a rough embrace. A face was pushed 
down against hers. Some one whispered, 

“You made a lot of noise getting out, girlie. 
Where’s your bag?” 

She drew back, bewildered, scared, answering me¬ 
chanically: “It’s upstairs.” 

“Well—for the Lord’s sake!” 

That wasn’t Pearse’s voice—even in a whisper 
Hilda knew it wasn’t. She’d known this wasn’t 


318 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


Pearse as soon as he touched her. Who was it? 
Who did he think she was? She tried to pull free. 
As her head went back, her eye caught the row of 
upper windows. The resurrection plant changed 
from Maybelle’s sill to her own—the gravel on the 
pane—she’d blundered into some arrangement of 
Maybelle’s! 

“I’m not—” she began; but the man’s fierce whisper 
interrupted, 

“Shut up—whoever you are! Do you want to 
give the whole thing away?” 

His grip on her arm dragged her back into the 
shadow. She saw a light flash up and go out in 
Maybelle’s room, the movement of a window-curtain 
there. The man beside her saw it, too. But now 
there was noise in the house. He loosed his hold 
on her arm and backed away toward his pony. Hilda 
stood where she was and looked while the house over 
there became all lit up. What should she do? 
Slowly she went toward the side door, and, as she 
stood hesitating there, some one tore it open and 
stood in it—Colonel Lee Marchbanks, a bathrobe 
pulled on over his night-clothes. 

“What the devil’s this?” 

“Oh, Hilda!” That was Mrs. Marchbanks, fol¬ 
lowing him, getting ahead of him and taking hold of 
her. Fayte came from somewhere. Miss Ferguson 
was on the porch. The lights from the windows 
flickered over their faces. The sound of galloping 
hoofs came from the trail—two ponies, plainly. 

“Who were those people?” the colonel demanded. 

“Only one people, I guess,” Fayte explained jeer- 
ingly, when she didn’t answer. “Masters brought a 
led pony for her.” 

“Masters? Was that Pearse Masters?” 


THE RESURRECTION PLANT 319 

“Let me pass, Colonel Marchbanks.” Hilda 
pushed by, the rest of them trailing after her. 

In the hall they all came together, and the colonel, 
who had tripped on one of his flapping slippers and 
come up angrier than ever, exploded, 

“You ought to be ashamed, Hilda! That young 
hound—here on my place—after he’d been as good as 
ordered off of it—you dressed and ready to run away 
with him! Oh, you can’t lie out of it, young lady; 
any fool could see what was up. May—” Hilda saw 
that Maybelle was halfway down the stairs, a kimono 
pulled on, one bedroom slipper and one riding boot, 
which latter nobody but herself seemed to notice— 
“May, go back and step into this girl’s room; see if 
she isn’t already packed to leave.” 

“She—she is, Pa,” Maybelle was almost whimper¬ 
ing. “I’ve just been in there. Everything she’s got 
is packed up.” 

Then she was down the stairs in a rush, her arms 
around Hilda’s neck, whispering, 

“Don’t. Don’t give me away. Oh—Hilda! It 
won’t make any difference to you. You don’t want 
to stay here, anyhow. But—” 

Hilda pushed her off and turned to Colonel March- 
banks. Of course, Maybelle’s things were packed, 
too; under that kimono Maybelle was dressed, ready 
to have gone with that man. 

“What Maybelle says is true,” she told them all, 
“I’m going to leave in the morning.” 

“You’ll leave for Lame Jones County in the morn¬ 
ing,” the colonel growled. 

“Certainly. That’s what I mean,” Hilda agreed. 

“Fayte, go dress,” said his father; “I want you to 
ride in to the station and send a telegram to Pearsall. 
The rest of you get upstairs to bed.” 


CHAPTER XXX 

THE RETURN 

I T was strange to Hilda to be going home to Lame 
Jones County by railroad. Not once before, since 
that journey from New York that brought the 
Yan Brunts to Texas, had she traveled on a train. 
The thought flitted vaguely through her mind—why 
she’d hardly know how to act—what to do. 

But, once settled in the car, sunk in her own 
thoughts, she found that the people in the other seats 
or passing in the aisles were almost like shadows. 
Even the Marchbankses out there at the ranch, in that 
queer breakfast at dawn, Mrs. Marchbanks and May- 
belle stealing down for it in wrappers, sitting with 
her under the colonel’s watchful eye, hadn’t been 
real people. They all swung in a sort of dream. 
Mrs. Marchbanks’s little signals to her when the man 
at the end of the table wasn’t looking—that trying 
to get in a word alone with her before the final 
good-by. What did it matter? Maybelle’s anxious, 
apologetic whisper that she’d tried to find out what 
Pa said in his telegram—guessed it was just a noti¬ 
fication to the folks at the Sorrows of Hilda’s un¬ 
expected return—got little attention. Fayte wasn’t 
at the table. Probably he hadn’t come back from 
Juan Chico. 

But, when they’d driven the miles in to the station, 
the colonel hardly speaking a word to her on the way, 
they didn’t see anything of Fayte there, either—and 
Hilda felt sure that the colonel was both disappointed 
320 


THE RETURN 


321 


and angry at that. He was angrier still when she 
openly posted with her own hand the note she had 
written to Pearse. Then they were checking her 
trunk; the colonel was having it brought close to the 
track where it could be loaded as soon as the train 
pulled in. Some one came hastily around the corner 
of the building, speaking to her as Miss Van Brunt, 
lifting his hat—the marshmallow man—the man who 
had stolen the ride with Maybelle on the way to the 
dance—the person Maybelle called Gene. In the 
morning light he looked more hard and objectionable 
even than she’d thought. His air was furtive. She 
moved back a step; he followed up, saying hurriedly: 

“I didn’t mean to be rough last night when you 
butted in on my game. Of course I took you for 
Maybelle. How about her? She send me any 
word? Have her folks found out anything? What’s 
my chance to see her now?” 

“What—what’s all this?” Marchbanks pounced 
on them from around the pile of baggage—he had 
heard every word. “Stop—wait, Hilda!” 

The train roared in; her trunk—the only one to 
go—was hustled aboard. 

“Hold on!” But she went past him. It was the 
conductor who helped her up the step, while he 
shouted “All aboard!” As the train moved out, she 
looked back to see the two men confronted. The 
wheels gathered speed. Soon the station was a toy 
house, those two she’d left beside the track just little 
vibrating dots—and finally they were out of sight. 

Thump-thump of the wheels—the swift-flying 
landscape outside of the windows . . . Time—place 
—were things that wavered, dissolved. She was 
again the little girl Hilda of nearly twelve years ago, 
on that journey from New York to Texas; her mother 


322 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


lying ill in a berth the porter had made up; all the 
people trying to be kind to them, but the Masterses 
seeming like own folks; Pearse’s mother sitting beside 
her mother, fanning the sufferer’s pale face, and her 
Boy-On-The-Train making himself a little girl’s hero. 
With this came more sense of reality than anything 
about her held. She could see it and feel it more 
vividly than she saw the conductor when he came 
through for her ticket now, or these other people 
about her in the seats of this other train. 

Through the long day’s journey, the stopping and 
starting, the getting on and getting off of passengers 
at stations, Hilda lived over and over the few short 
days that Pearse Masters—in the flesh—had occu¬ 
pied in her life; the many long hours that he had 
been with her mentally. Why he’d always been 
there. He was one of the fundamental facts of ex¬ 
istence—like Uncle Hank. 

He had asked her to stay in Encinal County so he 
could see her—once again, anyway. She’d failed 
him. She hadn’t stayed. Well—but—she’d told 
him in that note why she couldn’t stay. And she 
fairly begged him to come right over to the Three 
Sorrows as quick as he could. Would he do it? 
And if he did. . . . How would it be when he came? 

At the lowest of her depression she had a sick, cold 
clammy feeling that what she’d done—hiding Pearse 
in the cyclone cellar, and never telling Uncle Hank 
all these years; keeping him out of sight when she 
met him that night at the camp-fire, and again when 
she saw him on the trail the day the rustlers were at 
the ranch; not admitting to Uncle Hank when he 
talked to her on the door-stone that there was such a 
person as Pearse in Encinal County, and that his 
presence was the greater part of the reason for her 


THE RETURN 


323 


Wanting to go to the Alamositas to school—sometimes 
all this arrayed itself against her and seemed un¬ 
forgivable. Then she’d excuse herself—and Pearse 
—by remembering how long ago most of it was. He 
was different now. She was different. Yet it was 
a very pale, spent Hilda who saw, for the first time, 
the roof-lines of the little new station out on the 
western edge of the Three Sorrows, who got up and 
followed with dragging step when a porter jerked her 
valises together and started out with them. 

Uncle Hank was there to meet her with the buck- 
board. Well, it was a relief to have him to face— 
first. Uncle Hank was going to be the hardest part 
of it. She could deceive the others, if necessary; but 
she knew those kind blue eyes would look right 
through her. 

And that’s just what they seemed to do as he 
swung her down from the steps, searched her face 
gravely and said in a sort of subdued tone: 

“My, it’s a weight off my mind to have you here, 
all right, Pettie!” Then after another anxious sur¬ 
vey of her pale cheeks, the lips that she couldn’t keep 
from quivering, the eyes that were only bright because 
of unshed tears, he finished on a falling note, “I got 
Lee Marchbanks’s telegraft about noon.” 

The trunk had been thrown off. The train thun¬ 
dered away. Now Burch rode in from the trail, 
swung down from his pony, and came across to give 
her the usual funny, bumping kind of Burch kiss and 
ask in blunt boy fashion as he picked up the valises: 

“What started you home all in a hurry before the 
term was over, Hilda? Not sick, are you?” 

She glanced sidewise at Uncle Hank, who was 
bringing her trunk to lash on the back of the buck- 
board, and got a little shake of the head, which 


324 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


showed that he alone had whatever disquieting in¬ 
formation there was in that telegram of Colonel 
Marchbanks’s. 

“S’pose we leave sister tell us why she come home 
when she’s ready to say, Bud,” he suggested. 
“Reckon we’re glad to see her—whatever’s the rea¬ 
son. When folks get back ’tain’t polite, right at the 
first go-off, to ask too many questions, or so I was 
fetched up to believe.” 

“All right, Uncle Hank.” Burch, piling valises 
into the buckboard, grinned across at the old man 
strapping on the trunk. “Of course you’d stick up 
for Hilda, whatever she did. You always do. All 
I’ve got to say is that it takes something more than 
a quitter to get ready for college. Bet I beat her 
yet.” 

“I guess you will, Buddie.” Hilda’s foot was on 
the step. “I never said I was going to college, any¬ 
how. Uncle Hank and I are going to be partners 
and run the ranch; you know that.” 

Burch stared up at her, absently chucking a bag to 
see if it was firm. 

“Aw, that was the talk when we had to save money. 
We don’t, now. Hilda,” with a sharper look at her, 
“I believe you are sick. You look like it, anyhow.” 

“Ride on ahead, son,” Hank said gently. “Tell 
Auntie we met the girl, and it’s all right. You and 
her can talk out this college business when we get 
home. This child has had a hard trip. No wonder 
she looks sorta peaked; traveling on the railroad is 
mean work, if you ask me.” 

“But it’s lovely to have our own station, right here 
on our own land,” Hilda put in nervously. “It’s ever 
so exciting.” 

“Ye-es,” drawled Burch, grinning again as he 


THE RETURN 


325 


heaved himself into the saddle and held his pony for 
a moment close beside them. “I noticed how excited 
you were when you first came—just like some one 
walking in their sleep.” He loosened the rein and 
galloped ahead. 

There was a trying moment just after he was gone. 
Uncle Hank wouldn’t demand anything of her—he 
never did. That was what made it so hard. She 
must begin. She couldn’t begin. As though he felt 
her trouble, he said in a low tone, 

“I wasn’t aiming to ask any questions, Pettie.” 
The hurt in his voice pierced her. “I can wait for 
you to say your say.” 

“Oh, can you, Uncle Hank?” Her voice was 
husky. “Would you do that? I think—or anyhow 
I hope—that he’ll be over here at the Three Sor¬ 
rows—well—soon. If you could wait until then—” 

“I’ll wait.” The old man’s eyes were fixed straight 
ahead, on the empty plain. “That telegraft of Lee 
Marchbanks’s sorta made me think there might be 
a young man coming over here to see me pretty soon.” 

“Did it? Did they say it was—Pearse Masters?” 

Hank glanced up at her with a brief nod. 

“That’s the name,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll show 
it to you,” and he began searching through his 
pockets. “Long as it wasn’t that feller Fayte March- 
banks,” he muttered half to himself, “I felt I had 
something left to be thankful for. What’s that name 
again, Pettie? Masters?” 

“Pearse Masters.” Hilda, studying his face, saw 
that apparently he had never heard the name before. 
It meant nothing to him. But Pearse knew Uncle 
Hank by name; seemed to have known him—or known 
of him—a long time. Oh, why couldn’t she have 
had a chance to be told about that before she came 


326 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


home! The telegram was being smoothed out on 
her knee. She glanced down at it. 

“Your ward, Hilda Van Brunt, made attempt to elope from 
my house with man named Masters. Am sending her home on 
this morning’s train. Marchbanks.” 

She sat staring at it dumbly. Of course that was 
what the colonel would have said. But she could tell 
Uncle Hank the truth about that. She could tell him 
the whole thing. And he would believe her. As 
she began to speak, some one behind them called out, 

“Hi, Pearsall!” 

Looking around, they saw the agent standing in 
the station door waving a paper. Uncle Hank 
turned, almost with an air of relief, went back and 
got it. Hilda watched as he read and re-read the 
message, spoke to the man over his shoulder, and 
then came toward her, his hat pushed back, his hair 
ruffled, demanding, as he turned the sheet over to 
her, 

“What in time does this mean, Pettie? I can’t 
make nothing of it. The agent says that it’s been 
delayed. Looks like Marchbanks must have sent it 
soon after you took the train.” 

“He did,” said Hilda, as she read. “He must have 
sent it right there at the station at Juan Chico.” For 
the second yellow sheet that she and Uncle Hank 
now read together ran: 

“Statement in my earlier message entire mistake. Very 
much regret whole circumstance and apologize to Miss Hilda. 
She behaved most honorably. She will explain. 

“MARCHBANKS. ,, 

And explain Hilda did, as she and Uncle Hank 
finally drove away, headed for home. When all was 


THE RETURN 


327 


told, and Uncle Hank seemed relieved as she ex¬ 
pected he’d be—he said slowly, 

“And yet you tell me this young man, of the name 
of Masters, is coming over here to see me, Pettie?” 
Hank tried to smile. “No, you needn’t answer that. 
I said I’d ask no questions. Looks like I might keep 
my word—for a few minutes, anyhow.” 

The buckboard rattled ahead. Hank’s wide gaze 
took in the Three Sorrows pastures, the glimpse, be¬ 
yond there, of the low roof. There was the property 
he had pulled out of debt, saved for Charley Van 
Brunt’s children. Not so young as he had been—no, 
not so young. Yet to Hilda’s eyes, which had al¬ 
ways seen him with the silver in his hair, he shouldn’t 
have appeared noticeably older than when on that 
first occasion, in the office room, she, frightened that 
he was going away and leaving her, had wanted to 
say to him, in the words of her fairy tale, “If you 
will never forsake me, then I will never forsake you.” 
He stirred uneasily and began to speak. 

“You got my last letter?” 

Instantly there flashed into her mind the details 
of that letter: a sort of summing up of the Three 
Sorrows business affairs—in which he’d reminded her 
that she was said to be his partner in them, but in 
fact, though he was their guardian, she and Burch 
owned everything in full, and would be his employers, 
and he wanted her to see what this railroad proposi¬ 
tion meant to the estate. It had come the day before 
the dance at Graingers. Other things, to her much 
more important, had so filled her thoughts that she 
had not answered it. She came to herself now with 
the knowledge that Uncle Hank was stealing glance 
after glance at her, apparently distressed by the look 
in her face. 


328 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“I—oh, of course, you did write me in the letter 
all about it,” she said confusedly. “I guess I didn’t 
quite understand. Are we—will it put us out of debt, 
Uncle Hank?” 

“Pays everything.” The old man smiled a little 
sadly. “With the State & Gulf Line running that spur 
right through here, gives a-plenty to pay off—and 
stands to make you and Burch rich young folks. 
Within a few years, if things is managed right, you’ll 
be very rich, I doubt not. You can see from that, 
Pettie, why Lee Marchbanks’s news of you—” He 
broke off and gave his attention to his team, finishing 
after a minute, “You will both be rich. I ain’t uneasy 
about Burch. He’s a boy; and old-headed at that. 
It’s you—and—and things like this telegraft that 
scares me.” 

No, it wasn’t that he really looked so much older; 
he seemed somehow stricken, disappointed. Why, 
he’d had that second telegram—she’d explained how 
the first one came to be sent—that it was all a mistake; 
yet he could sit there and tell her that the ranch was 
paid out of debt and they were going to be rich—and 
still look that way. Well, it was— Oh, didn’t he 
know she wasn’t forsaking him—that she never 
would? You might like another person very much 
too. That didn’t mean— 

“You—you will try to like him, Uncle Hank, when 
he comes—if he comes?” Hilda spoke with tremu¬ 
lous eagerness. “I—oh, I just feel as though it would 
break my heart if you and he weren’t friends.” 

“All right, Pettie girl.” Again that effort to smile; 
it made her throat choke up. “You know the Bible 
says it’s hard for a camel to go through the eye of 
a needle. I’ve been told that the needle’s eye is 
really a low gate, so called, and the beast has to kneel 


THE RETURN 


329 


down and shuffle through on his knees. Reckon that’s 
the way any young men you bring around will have to 
come through with your Uncle Hank.” 

“Oh—I’m just hoping to get him over here for 

you to see—that’s all.” The red rushed up in 

Hilda’s face; she flashed a shaky little smile at him. 
“How could he be a friend of mine—without being 
a friend of yours?” 

He seemed about to answer that; thought better 
of it; finally said mildly: 

“Pettie, s’pose we don’t speak no more of the mat¬ 
ter—till he comes. Let’s put it by and be just like 

old times. There’s your Auntie on the porch. It’s 

doing Miss Valeria lots of good to be rich again. 
She’s a’ready got in new servants. I doubt not she 
has many a fine plan laid for you—now that expense 
doesn’t have to be considered.” 

But all time is new time. Even “times” are always 
new ones—never just like “old times.” Always some¬ 
thing has been taken out—or something added—that 
makes the new different. Here was Hilda eager, 
fond, loving everything and everybody on the ranch 
of the Three Sorrows more demonstratively than ever 
before in her life, yet Hank felt the difference as she 
rushed up the steps to greet her aunt, as she ran 
through the house to find Sam Kee in his kitchen. 

An unseen presence seemed to come with her, very 
real: the young man who would be here in the flesh 
to-morrow—or the next day—or the next. Oh, he’d 
come. Hank never doubted that. Surely it was the 
thought of him that gave her such glowing cheeks, 
lit soft fires under the dusk of her lashes as they sat 
that night at the table. 

“After all,” smiled Miss Val, very complacent in 
the new order of things, “it’s as well that Hilda’s 


330 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


come home. That ranch place wasn’t very suitable. 
Mr. Pearsall and I have been talking about your 
future, Hilda. Probably a good finishing school near 
New York for awhile—and then travel.” 

Hilda and Uncle Hank exchanged a glance, both 
acutely conscious of the young man who was coming 
to the Three Sorrows on the next day—or the next. 
Neither said a word to Miss Valeria of the matter. 
They were still partners, that far. If Pearse 
Masters’ coming was to be the wedge between them 
—it had not yet divided them completely. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


A TELEGRAM 



PALE Hilda, still plainly on nervous strain, 


sat at the breakfast table next morning. 


Uncle Hank—up and out an hour or two 
earlier—had ridden in for the meal. Aunt Valeria’s 
whole attention went to the new waitress she was 
training. At a signal from her, the girl brought a 
yellow envelope on a tray and offered it to Hilda— 
from the wrong side. 

Miss Valeria frowned, signaled again sharply; 
the telegram—it could be nothing else—was whisked 
away from her niece’s eager fingers and properly pre¬ 
sented. Hilda snatched it up and opened it with 
hands that shook. 

Aunt Val and Burch were looking at her with frank 
inquiry and interest; but Uncle Hank, after one 
quick glance, paid close attention to his food. 

“Oh,” she said, the strain relaxing into tremulous 
smiles, “this is—it’s a friend of mine coming over 
from Encinal County. He—he says he’ll be here on 
the afternoon train.” 

Burch returned to his oatmeal; Aunt Valeria’s ex¬ 
pression invited further details; so Hilda went on, 

“His name is Pearse Masters, Aunt Val, maybe 
you’d remember that the Masterses were people we 
met coming out to Texas; and when Mamma got 
sick, they stopped off in Denver with us and stayed 
till—stayed there through it all. They were gone 
before you got there—but perhaps you remember the 
name.” 


331 


332 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Oh, yes, I remember very well,” said Miss Valeria. 
“Does Mrs. Masters come with him? Are they liv¬ 
ing in New Mexico now?” 

“Mr. and Mrs. Masters are both dead; this”— 
the color deepened in Hilda’s cheeks; her voice 
wavered a little—“this is their son.” 

“Oh—a young man?” Miss Valeria went on with 
her breakfast, murmuring vaguely, “The afternoon 
train? He’ll be here in time for dinner, then; that’s 
very nice.” 

The talk went quite buoyantly after that, Hilda 
asking questions about things on the ranch—and 
hardly hearing the answers, Miss Valeria explaining 
new arrangements in the household matters. Now 
that there were plenty of servants, this small lady— 
who had never ceased to be a resident of New York 
merely sojourning on a Texas Panhandle ranch—took 
a great deal more interest in the Three Sorrows do¬ 
mestic machinery. It was after breakfast, in the hall, 
that Uncle Hank and Hilda came together alone. 

“I’m so glad—” she began, oh, how unnecessarily! 
One look at her flushed cheeks and glowing eyes 
would have been enough. “I’m sure Aunt Val’s going 
to like him. Burch already knows him—though, of 
course, I don’t suppose he can remember—and now, 
if you—” 

“If me,” Ha*nk said gently. “I can’t see why you’re 
uneasy about me, Pettie. No special reason for it, 
is there?” 

“No—yes—Uncle Hank.” 

Hilda moved on with him to the office, where they 
could speak together without fear of interruption. 
“There is a reason; that’s why I’m so glad he’s com¬ 
ing over here—again.” 


A TELEGRAM 333 

“Again?” Quickly. “Has he ever been at the Sor- 
rers before? Not that I’ve known of.” 

Hilda’s eyes never left the anxious face that con¬ 
fronted her as she told, at last, the whole story of 
her hiding Pearse Masters in the cyclone cellar, of 
the snatched interview during the drive up with the 
trail-herd. That was easy. She was glad now to 
share that with Uncle Hank. But when she came to 
the part over in New Mexico, the dance at Grainger’s, 
the picnic on Caliente Creek, she found it harder going. 
Yet, the bare facts of these things too she got before 
him, tried to express something of what they meant 
to her, broke off blushing, and finally finished, 

“So you see, he’s The Boy-On-The-Train that I was 
always telling you about when I was a little girl, 
Uncle Hank. And when I hid him here on the Three 
Sorrows—he wasn’t a cattle thief—but if the sheriff 
had got him that—” 

“I see. I see, Pettie.” Hank stood looking down, 
sorting out this new information. Finally he went 
on without looking at her: 

“What you said in there at the breakfast table, 
and what you’ve said here to me, does make a good 
deal of difference. If that’s all so—and, of course, 
I know it is so, when you tell me it is—what makes 
you keep on talking like you thought this young man 
and me might not take to each other? That he 
should have persuaded you into hiding him here in the 
Sorrers unbeknownst to me—I ain’t holding that up 
against him. Must have been but a boy at the time. 
You was only a little girl. Reckon he was scared. 
Didn’t know me, and had knowed you and your folks 
before. I reckon that was all there was to it, wasn’t 
it?” 


334 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“Not—not quite all, Uncle Hank.” Hilda was 
trembling. Her face burned, her eyes wavered and 
fell away from his. “He—he did seem to know 
about you, and—there seemed to be something— 
something—” her voice failed her. After a moment, 
she was able to finish, in a husky whisper, “He didn’t 
feel friendly—to you.” 

“Sho!” Uncle Hank looked at her blankly. 
“Seemed to know me? I’ve been figgerin’ he was a 
son of the Masters that was part owner of the J I C 
company out there in Encinal. Rich eastern man, as 
I recollect it. Them the people?” 

“Yes,” said Hilda faintly. “Mr. Masters died 
just before Pearse came out West—you know—the 
time I hid him here.” 

“Left his share in the company to the boy,” Hank 
nodded. “Well, it ain’t anything against him to be 
a rich man’s son. Some of ’em are some account.” 
He spoke heavily. Hilda felt that he was making 
an effort. She hurried to help out. 

“Oh—he isn’t quite that. They had other chil¬ 
dren, grown up, that got most of what was left. 
They’d given Pearse a fine education—but he’s 
really sort of poor. He says it’s just a little share he 
has in the J I C. He wasn’t even sure he’d get that. 
But he loves this western country just the same as 
you and I do.” An appealing glance. “So that’s 
what brought him out here when Mr. Masters died 
—he came to get a job with the J I C. And he got 
it. And he worked awfully hard. He was promoted 
three times in the first year. And now he’s doing 
splendidly. He—” 

She stopped, looking entreatingly in his face. He 
said very quietly: 

“You think a heap of him, don’t you, Pettie?” 


A TELEGRAM 


335 


“Oh, I do. And you will, too, Uncle Hank, when 
you know him.” 

“Well, dear,” he said slowly, “I’m bound to warn 
you that it sorta puts my bristles up—the idea of a 
young feller that’s a friend of yourn, and that I hain’t 
never seen, coming all set to be unfriendly with me— 
your guardian. It—Hilda”—when had he ever 
used her full name like that!—“it don’t look so good 
to me. Well—what is it, Buster?” as a head was 
poked in at the door. “Want me over at the north 
pasture, this morning? All right,” with apparent 
relief; then to Hilda, “Run tell Sam Kee to put me 
up a snack, Pettie. Have to make a day of it up 
there, I reckon. But if I ain’t on hand when your 
company first gets here, you and Miss Valery can 
make him welcome. Reckon I won’t be missed.” 

He seemed to become aware that he’d spoken dis¬ 
concertingly, smiled and patted her shoulder. 

Hilda wanted to say that he would be missed— 
very much—but she had a habit of truth-telling that 
interfered. She got the lunch for him, ran out to 
the corral with it, and stood looking rather blankly 
after the two men as they rode away. The thought 
that Uncle Hank and Pearse might never like each 
other at all, might actually quarrel, that the thing 
which Pearse seemed to hold against the older man 
might turn out to be something that couldn’t be ex¬ 
plained away— Well, only a few hours now. She 
flew to the kitchen, borrowed broom, cloths, dustpan, 
from Sam Kee, rolled her sleeves high, tied a towel 
over her hair, and slipped down to the cyclone cellar 
to make it beautiful for Pearse’s first view of it. 
Here—nowhere else—they two alone—he would tell 
her. She would know at last. 

Captain Snow had followed down; while she 


336 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


worked he dozed on the foot of the couch where 
Pearse had slept, on the blanket which he had sent 
to her as a gift. But her noisy cleaning work an¬ 
noyed the old cat. He was getting to an age when 
he disliked excitement. He finally jumped down, 
ambled gravely across and mewed to be let out, 
swishing his fluffy tail and pawing delicately at the 
door edge. Hilda let him go, an unusual frown be¬ 
tween her brows. She worked on, periods of abso¬ 
lute rigidity alternating with moments of fiercely en¬ 
ergetic action, till Sam Kee’s gong sounded above 
stairs—and she wasn’t decent for the table, let alone 
dressed to go over and meet Pearse. 

Hilda started for the station very soon after lunch. 
When the buckboard came around, Burch jeered that 
she’d be fully an hour early for the train. But once 
she had seen her little retreat all spick and span, the 
checkerboard she and Pearse had played so many 
games on laid out, the books they had read together 
on the shelf, she was too restless to wait longer. 

At the station the agent came out as she rode up; 
looked very hard at her and called the time. In¬ 
differently, it flitted through her mind; oh, yes, all 
those telegrams had come through his hands. Of 
course, he knew. He understood who this was she 
was meeting. She tied her ponies to the rack and 
began walking up and down. 

She couldn’t be still. She looked at her watch 
every few minutes, tried to make a game counting her 
steps. Some men rode up, dismounted, and went 
into the office; people she’d never seen before. There 
were a lot of new folks around now. The railroad 
brought them, maybe. The clicking of the instru¬ 
ment in there, sound of voices; she made her path a 
little farther away, so that she shouldn’t hear, so that 


A TELEGRAM 


337 


it might not interfere with her thoughts, then, in a 
panic, was afraid she might be too far off when the 
train arrived, came back and found a box a little way 
up the track, where she could sit down and wait. 

All at once she knew she was tired. There by the 
track, the sky a great blue span above her, she dropped 
into a musing so deep that time went swiftly by; it 
seemed but a moment when there was a little speck 
far off on the horizon, coming nearer. Suddenly, 
and strangely, she was the little girl Hilda, waiting 
for Uncle Hank on the door-stone. No—that little 
moving speck, far off and coming nearer, wasn’t 
Uncle Hank on Buckskin. That was Pearse’s train. 
Swiftly it grew; there was a humming now, a puff of 
smoke, the diminished hoot of the whistle. 

“She’s going to stop. Some one to get off.” The 
station agent had come out with those other men. 
He was hanging a mail bag on the crane. The train 
was pulling in. Pearse was here! 

Under three pairs of curious eyes—those that 
might look from the train didn’t count—they shook 
hands. Nothing really said till they got over to the 
buckboard, and then Hilda, as he helped her in, the 
happiness of it all looking out of her shining eyes, 
glowing on her cheeks, whispered: 

“It was awfully good of you, Pearse, to come so 
soon. I was afraid, when I wrote you, that you 
wouldn’t—” 

“Did you write me a letter?” Pearse stopped, 
looking up at her. “What did it say?” 

“Oh—just explained that I couldn’t stay any longer 
at the Marchbankses’ and asked you to come over 
here instead. Why, Pearse—if you didn’t get it, how 
did you know to come?” 

Pearse laughed a little, circled the buckboard, and 


338 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


got in on the other side, taking up the lines she offered 
him, and starting the ponies. 

“You seem to think I need a good deal of bringing, 
Hilda,” still smiling. Then, after a quick, sidelong 
glance at her face, where the lowered lashes made a 
sweeping dusk against flaming cheeks, “I don’t. But 
I wish I’d had your letter too.” 

“I wonder why you didn’t get it.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t have got it. You say you posted 
it at the station? It wouldn’t have gone out to the 
ranch till night; one of the boys always rides in and 
fetches the mail in the evening; and when evening 
came I was in Juan Chico. You know what a little 
town like that is—everybody’d heard of your having 
gone home. Fayte had talked, too, when he came in 
to send that telegram, about how I’d been at the 
Alamositas in the small hours, with a led horse, to 
steal you.” 

Hilda’s heart leaped guiltily at the words. 

“But,” she began hastily, “but the colonel knows 
better than that, now. He knows who it was came 
to the ranch that night. It was by mistake the man 
got my window instead of Maybelle’s. It”—she 
stared down at her fingers, speaking in a very small 
voice—“it was awfully silly of me to think you’d come 
back and throw gravel on my window; but I’d been 
asleep, and—before that—I’d just finished writing 
my letter to you; and you know how confused every¬ 
thing is when you’re waked up suddenly that way. I 
heard it, and—I ran down—and never realized till 
he spoke that it wasn’t you—that it couldn’t have 
been you, of course.” 

“Oh—it couldn’t have been me, of course—eh?” 
Pearse echoed, his voice a little unsteady. And then, 


A TELEGRAM 


339 


for a long moment, there was no sound but the quick, 
soft thud of the horses’ hoofs. 

“We”—Hilda tried to speak in a nice, practical 
tone—“we’re sensible, aren’t we, Pearse?” 

“I suppose we are,” Pearse conceded, a bit grudg¬ 
ingly. “And I’ve got to see your people, and—” 
“Yes, of course,” Hilda broke in nervously. 
“That’s what I said in my letter. I asked you to 
come over and have the little talk you spoke of— 
and make friends with Uncle Hank.” 

“You’re still thinking that it will be making 
friends?” Pearse stiffened a bit, and pulled the 
horses down to a slower pace. “More likely that 
Pearsall and I will never have anything to do with 
each other, Hilda; that it’ll have to be you and me 
—or you and him.” Then, slackening the lines so 
that the horses went forward faster, “Colonel March- 
banks and Gene Denner fought all over the station 
platform. Everybody knows now who was at the 
Alamositas that night, and what girl he was after— 
everybody but the Marchbankses did know already 
about Maybelle’s affair with that fellow.” 

“Oh, but it’s different with us,” Hilda’s voice failed 
at the end of that statement. She had no words to 
answer as Pearse asked softly, looking straight ahead, 
“Are you sure it’s so different?” 

They were at the gate, turning in to the long ave¬ 
nue of box elders, and she caught at the first little 
commonplace thing to say, with, 

“Look at our trees, Pearse. Aren’t they lovely? 
Haven’t they grown a lot since the last time you saw 
them? Right over there is the spring at the head of 
the asequia where you came in that day. You can’t 
quite see it from here for the mound—Burch used to 


340 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


call it the little mountain when he was a baby—that 
mound’s over the cyclone cellar.” 

There wasn’t another word said till Pearse was 
lifting her down at the steps, and Aunt Val rose from 
a rocker on the porch to meet them. Miss Van 
Brunt seemed to like at once this tall, good looking 
young fellow who had known her brother and her 
brother’s wife and children. She felt that such a 
person had background, and background was the thing 
she was apt to miss in her western acquaintances. 
Burch came out and said “Hello,” amusingly certain 
that he perfectly remembered Pearse, and took the 
visitor up to the room which had been prepared for 
him. When they came downstairs again, Hilda was 
waiting for them. 

“I’m going to show Pearse over the place a bit 
while it’s still light enough to see things,” she said 
easily, then in a half-whisper, “Quick, Pearse. Come 
this way. Around the house. We’ll have to go in 
by the back. Nobody knows about my cyclone cellar 
yet.” 

They ran, hand in hand, like two children, ducking 
under the low-swung branches of trees, skirting 
shrubs. When they burst into the kitchen, old Sam 
Kee, straightening up from the range where he was 
sliding a pan of biscuits into the oven, looked at them 
with such twinkling eyes that Hilda was sure he had 
already watched Pearse’s arrival. 

“You know who this is, don’t you, Sam?” she 
smiled. 

“Sure, I know,” the Chinaman grinned back at her. 
“Plitty nice boy you got. Fine young man, now.” 

“That was good coffee and chow you gave me,” 
Pearse offered diplomatically. 

“This dinner-time more good chow.” Sam Kee’s 


A TELEGRAM 


341 


yellow face was a pucker of amiability. “You stay 
here, I feed you all time good chow.’ , 

“Well, that’s something to stay for,” Pearse said 
solemnly, and the Chinaman went off into long, silent 
chuckles. Hilda was already calling over her 
shoulder: 

“Come on, Pearse. If dinner is as near ready as 
all this, we’ve got to hurry.” 

With her leading, they crossed the big cellar and 
threaded the passage. But once in that little chamber 
of memories, how was either of them to remember 
that life presented any problems, that there might be 
breakers ahead? Pearse went from one thing to an¬ 
other admiring; Hilda had full reward for making 
the place so fine and festive. 

“Why—you’ve kept every one of them!” Pearse 
looked around at his gifts, proudly displayed. 

“Yes. I showed them to the folks. They were 
too lovely to keep entirely to myself; but after that I 
brought them down here.” 

“I’ll get you a better serape than this.” Pearse 
fingered the blanket on the couch. “I know where I 
can pick up a Hanno Chaddie—that means ‘chief’s 
blanket’—ever see one ?” And he went on to tell her 
of the pattern. 

But it made no difference what either of them said, 
one thing lay under it all—Pearse had come back—as 
he said he would. He’d walked up the front steps 
this time; he’d met and made friends with Miss 
Valeria and Burch. Now there remained—Uncle 
Hank. After they’d talked a while, eagerly, of that 
former time of hiding here in the cyclone cellar, 
Pearse said suddenly: 

“Shall you tell Pearsall about having hidden me 
here, that time?” 


342 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


“I’ve already told him, Pearse. Was that wrong? 
Didn’t you want me to?” 

“Doesn’t make any difference. I suppose I’d have 
told him myself when I saw him. I suppose I shall 
see him to-morrow, shan’t I? He’s on the ranch, 
isn’t he?” 

“To-morrow? You’ll see him to-night, Pearse. 
At dinner—in a few minutes, now. He might come 
in any time.” 

She hurried over to the little window and stood 
nervously pushing the vine lattice aside so that she 
saw the spring, the stream, the little bridge that led 
across to the bunk house. And at the instant she 
caught sight of a familiar figure crossing and whirled, 
crying : 

“Pearse—there’s Uncle Hank, now! Come on.” 

“All right—tell you all about it on the way up,” 
Pearse said almost desperately, and while they hur¬ 
ried stumblingly, through the dark cellar, he talked 
in hasty, broken sentences. 

“What! What!” Hilda cried out. Then, “Oh, 
if I’d only known when you were here before—if 
you’d only told me then!” 

She clutched his hand and pulled him close after 
her. Both of them flushed, excited, they ran across 
the kitchen and came in behind Uncle Hank in the 
hall, moving toward the open door of the office just 
ahead. As Hilda, still drawing Pearse with her, fol¬ 
lowed, and pulled the door shut behind them, her call 
rang out strangely: 

“He’s here, Uncle Hank! He’s come!” 


CHAPTER XXXII 

AN ARRIVAL 

I N the office Hank faced sharply around, and the 
tall men stood looking at each other; there was 
a moment of silence, in which the cooing of Sam 
Kee’s pigeons could be heard. Hilda was breathing 
short. 

“I—I thought maybe you’d know him,” she fal¬ 
tered at last, and Uncle Hank looked from one of 
them to the other in astonishment. 

“I reckon this is young Mr. Masters, ain’t it, 
Pettie?” 

“Henry Pearsall Moseley,” Pearse made the state¬ 
ment he had made to Hilda in other words as they 
crossed the cellar down there. “Masters is the name 
of my adopted parents. I just told Hilda. But she 
didn’t want to wait for details. She hurried me 
right up here to you. I—I had thought, myself, that 
it would be better to speak to you alone, at first. You 
would rather not have her hear—” 

He made a significant pause. Hank wasn’t listen¬ 
ing; all his soul seemed to be in the gaze he set on 
this young man. When he spoke, it was to say, 
huskily, wonderingly, 

“Harry!” Then slowly, “It is you. Yes—seems 
I must have knowed you, even without the name. 
You’ve got the look of your mother, boy.” 

At that mention of his mother, Hilda saw an angry 
gleam come into Pearse’s eyes. 

“See here!” he burst out. “I’ve not told Hilda any¬ 
thing but my name—and that I’m your stepson. 
343 


344 


A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


She’d never have known from me that you and my 
mother were separated, and that you turned your 
back on me, as though I’d been a stray dog. But if 
you want her to hear it—” 

“No! Oh, no!” Hilda broke in before Hank 
could find words. “That wasn’t the way of it, 
Pearse. Uncle Hank told me long ago about the 
little son he loved so, and— Oh, tell him, Uncle 
Hank! Tell him quick!” 

“Come over here. Set down. Both of you,” said 
Hank’s quiet voice. “We got to get the rights of 
this.” He took his place in the desk chair. As they 
were getting settled so that they faced him, Pearse 
said more mildly, 

“I’m sorry I spoke as I did just then. I don’t want 
to make Hilda feel bad. I’m willing to let bygones 
be bygones—if you will, sir.” 

“So, my boy’s come back to me, after a-many year 
—come back with a grudge against me, has he, 
Harry? Of all the things I thought to expect—that 
wasn’t, somehow, one. And what you said just now 
about me and your mother having parted? She never 
told you such a word. Where did you get it?” 

“From Uncle Jeff Aiken,” said Pearse bitterly. 
“The man you shoved me off on—that you had shoved 
her off on.” 

“Jeff Aiken ain’t no uncle of yours.” Hank’s tone 
was patient. “He’s but the man who married your 
•father’s sister. Shoved you off on him? When you 
and Mattie went there to visit—at her wish, son— 
you was well furnished with money, and I sent money 
regular. After the Lord took her, I sent money for 
your keep with Aiken for two years— And by that 
time—well—well—” 

He searched in the desk drawer, found a packet of 


AN ARRIVAL 


345 


letters, laid them beside him. “Them’s Mattie’s, 
son. I’ll leave you read them later. You’ll find in 
them if she thought she was cast off. Here’s some of 
Aiken’s, receipting for the money I sent for your 
board and schooling, telling me that you was doing 
well and wished to stay where you was at. And I’ve 
got another here, the one you wrote before you took 
and run away from him. . . . Poor little feller.” 

The yellowed sheet Pearse and Hilda read, sitting 
there side by side, was a child’s appeal to the father 
he still trusted to come and take him away from a 
home that had become intolerable. As Pearse looked 
from it into Hank’s face and back again, his own face 
went through many changes of emotion. 

“I felt pretty bad when I wrote that,” he said 
doubtfully. “I had no idea there was any money 
being sent for me. Uncle Jeff’s way was, when he’d 
come to a deadlock and licked me till he was afraid 
to lick any more, to start in on a tongue-lashing. He 
could hurt me worse that way than he could with a 
stick, and he knew it. He’d tell me that you and 
mother had separated when she left Texas, and that 
you said you never wanted to see my face again. 
Sometimes I didn’t believe him. After a while I did. 
I just wrote that letter on a chance, and because I 
was desperate.” 

“Yes. I know.” Hank nodded. “When I went 
back there—as I did—at the news that you had run 
away, I found how things had been. Aiken thought 
he was justified—if such a man can be said to think 
a-tall. Told me that your mother had spoiled you, 
and some one had to take holt and straighten you 
out. Admitted that he set in to break your will. 
Man of his sort gets that idea into his head about a 
child—he’ll go to any lengths. He held out my let- 


346 A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY 


ters on you. Why, Harry, I wrote as regular as the 
time come, hoping all the while that you’d change 
your mind and want to come back to me. All I’d 
get in answer would be Jeff’s receipt for the money, 
and his statement that you was satisfied where you 
was and hadn’t seen fit to write. He still justifies 
himself—Aiken does—says he done it for your 
good.” 

“If I had only known.” Pearse was back in the 
bitterness of his boyhood struggle. 

“Or if I’d known,” said Hank. “But the first 
word I got was when you run away. It come to me 
late, by the hand of a rider that chanced to be passing 
and brought my mail. I was right in the middle of 
the fall roundup, but I dropped everything and struck 
straight for Missouri.” 

Hilda’s hand found Uncle Hank’s; Pearse already 
held her other. The three of them drew together. 

“I pretty near run through everything I had trying 
to hunt you up. Looked like I just couldn’t turn 
back to Texas without my child. Ranches and cattle 
and roundups and such”— he gestured helplessly with 
his free hand—“they looked like nothing but a pack 
of foolishness to me then. Didn’t seem nothing in 
the world of any real value at the side of a little 
tow-headed feller that had run away—that was lost 
to me—out in the world somewheres. I sold my 
ranch. Most that it brought went into the search for 
you. It was when I give up and thought that you 
must be dead that I took this job as manager of the 
Sorrers. And after I’d been here three or four years 
the company sold to Pettie’s mother, and Pettie her¬ 
self come out here to sorta fill the place that you’d 
left so turrible vacant.” 

“Father!” Hilda thought that word in Pearse’s 


AN ARRIVAL 


347 


voice must make up to Uncle Hank for a great deal. 
“Nobody on earth ever meant as much to me as you 
did. That’s why it hurt so when I had to believe you 
weren’t what I’d always thought you. A poor fool of 
a kid—are you going to forgive me?” 

“Ah, law, son! If I could be forgiven my own sins 
as easy as I can overlook your being a little too ready 
to be suspicious of me, and sorta holding onto a bad 
view of me whether the evidence seemed sufficient 
or not—if I could do that, I’d sure have a clean 
record.” 

In the deep silence that followed came again the 
velvety coo of Sam Kee’s pigeons. A belated bee 
from the hive out near the spring circled in through 
the window, hummed drowsily once around the room, 
and blundered out again. In the back hall the gong 
made its low-toned, persuasive announcement under 
the Chinaman’s hand. Steps came down the stairs, 
Miss Valeria’s little high-heeled slippers. A resound¬ 
ing bang from the living-room told that Burch had 
clapped-to the lid of his desk. 

In the crimson and gold glories that streamed from 
the west, last of the sunset fires, the three rose and 
stood together a moment lingeringly. Hank’s eyes 
wandered out over the prospect in front, basking in 
that radiance, then took on a far-away, dreamy look. 

“The evening’s a mighty sweet time, too,” he said 
low, as though speaking to himself. 

“We’ll go and tell the others, now, won’t we?” 
Hilda suggested with tremulous eagerness, as Pearse’s 
hand holding hers closed tighter over it. And when 
Hank turned and looked from her face to his boy’s, 
he saw on them the morning. 


THE END 
















































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